•WHITE    FOUNTAINS 

UC-NRLF 


EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 


0/2. 


WHITE    FOUNTAINS 


WHITE   FOUNTAINS 

Odes  and  Lyrics 
EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 


•  Wise  men,  all  ways  of  knowledge  past, 
To  the  shepherds'  wonder  come  at  last : 
To  know  can  only  wonder  breed, 
And  not  to  know  is  wonder's  seed." 

SIDNEY  GOUOLPHIN. 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

MCMXVII 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE,   U.  S.  A. 


TO 
MY  MOTHER 

\YHO    FIRST   BREATHED   THE   DREAM 


385004 


FOR  permission  to  reprint  certain  poems  in  this  col 
lection  grateful  acknowledgment  is  made  to  the  edi 
tors  of  Scribner's  Magazine,  The  Bellman,  The  Poetry 
Review  of  America,  The  Poetry  Journal,  The  Little 
Review,  Contemporary  Verse,  Others,  The  Trimmed  Lamp, 
The  Midland,  The  Book  News  Monthly,  The  Stratford 
Journal,  The  Smart  Set,  The  San  Francisco  Monitor, 
and  The  Boston  Evening  Transcript;  to  Mr.  Alfred  A. 
Knopf,  the  publisher  of  Others:  An  Anthology  of  the 
New  Verse  ;  to  Mr.  Mitchell  Kennerley,  the  publisher 
of  The  Lyric  Year ;  to  Mr.  Laurence  J.  Gomme,  the 
publisher  of  the  Anthologies  of  Magazine  Verse  for 
ipi4,  1915,  and  1916,  and  to  M.  Lucien  Rolmer, 
editor  of  La  Flora,  Paris. 


NOTE. 

A  word  is  necessary  as  to  the  metrical  form  of 
the  two  odes  in  this  volume.  This  form  is  based 
on  the  rhythms  of  Gregorian  plain  chant,  with  cer 
tain  modifications  required  by  the  genius  of  English 
speech.  Caesural  pauses  are  indicated  by  commas, 
following  the  tradition  of  Mr.  Bridges,  Mr.  Doughty, 
and  other  English  poets.  The  metre  may  be  ac 
celerated  or  retarded  in  this  form  as  the  emotional 
expression  demands,  and  rhyme  is  used  sparingly 
where  the  pulse  of  the  verse  requires  swift  singing 
expression.  The  possibilities  of  this  metrical  form 
in  English  verse  were  first  hinted  at  in  the  rhythms 
of  Synge's  "  Riders  to  the  Sea,"  and  Lord  Dunsany's 
"  Book  of  Wonder."  It  has  found  one  great  poet 
in  French  verse  in  the  person  of  Paul  Claudel. 

EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN. 


CONTENTS 

PRELUDE 

FLESH    UNTO    FLOWERS  3 

FLESH  5 

FLOWER  39 

LYRICS 

THE   WHISPER   OF   EARTH  75 

IRISH  75 

THE   MESSENGER  76 

TO   THE    FOREST  WAYS  77 

THE   PIPING   MOUNTAIN Y   MAN  78 

HOMEWAYS  79 

ROMANY    LOVE    SONG  80 

LIGHT   TRANSMUTED  80 

THE    SHEPHERD   BOY  8 1 

MAGIC  82 

SONG:  "FAIR  BODY,  FLOWER  NOT  IN  VAIN "   84 

TO   AN   APRIL    SKYLARK  85 

THE   BRIM  86 

A   SONG   FOR   TWILIGHT  87 

ARAN    SLUMBER    SONG  87 

SMOORING    SONG  88 

MICHAEL   PAT  89 

A    CHRISTMAS    WHISTLE  QO 

THE   WHITE    MAID    OF    BALLINASLOE  91 

SONG  :    "  MY  HEART  IS  FULL  OF  LAUGHING 

BIRDS  "  92 

OFF    CHATHAM   BARS  93 

ARAN    CRADLE    SONG  93 

THE    SHROUD  94 

THE   LAST   PIPER  96 

THE   LAMENT   AT   THE    WEDDING  97 

HELLENICA  99 

ix 


LYRICS 

COMPLAINT  OF  THE   OBLIVION  OF  THE  DEAD 

From  Jules  Laforgue  jo8 

THE   DEAD   MAIDEN,    From  Paul  Fort  IIO 

THE   DRIFTING   MAN  IIO 

FOR   ONE   WHO   WENT  113 


WHITE  FOUNTAINS 


ODES. 


I.  FLESH. 
II.  FLOWER. 


PRELUDE. 

1LESH  unto  flowers, 

And  flame  unto  mind, 
The  cleansing  of  showers 
Shall  come  to  thee  blind. 


F' 


In  the  night  of  thy  sleeping 
The  sound  of  the  tide 
Shall  waken  thee  weeping 
To  turn  to  my  side. 


FLESH. 

To  "  Hum  His  " 
The  Poet  speaketh  to  his  Flesh: 

WHENCE  art  thou  come,  O  substance,  flee 
ing   in   vain    from   the    Spirit   who    doth 
rule  thee? 

What  dost  thou  weave  in  silence,  in  the  heart 
of  tumultuous  days? 

Light  playeth  upon  thee,  and  the  sun  smileth 
upon  thy  Beauty,  and  saith  it  is  good ; 

yet  the  Heart  of  me  knoweth  thee  not,  and  my 
Mind  knoweth  not  the  web  of  thy  weaving. 

Strange  is  the  joy  of  thy  Fingers,  touching  cool 
water,  in  the  dawn  of  the  morning: 

strange  are  thy  smooth  white  Sides,  in  the 
sunlit  shade  of  the  birches. 

Thine  Eyes,  awful  with  wonder,  what  is  their 

clear  white  vision, 
sealed  in  the  waters  of  silence,  hidden  in  plumy 

sleep? 

Thy  Neck,  slender  and  dovelike,  is  it  the  whis 
per  of  music, 

dipping  its  happy  smoothness,  in  the  cool  run 
ning  waters  of  life? 

5 


Flesh.   Thy   Shoulders,  which   shine  in  the  pool,  high 

and  calm  in  their  grace, 

are  they  the  song  of  thy  Beauty,  erect  in  the 
sight  of  the  angels? 

Thy  Bosom,  where  laugheth  the  sunlight, 
is  it  the  secret  tabernacle, 

watched  by  the  morning  stars,  as  they  shine  on 
the  heart  of  the  world? 

Thine  Arms,  which  glisten  in  freedom, 
do  they  fly  with  the  wings  of  the  morning, 
bearing   thee    from    the    night,    o'er    the    silver 
waters  of  sleep? 

Thy    Fingers,    white    as    the    water    drops,    thy 

Fingers  which  touch  in  silence, 
what  do  they  whisper  thee,  in  the  quiet  hours 

of  the  evening? 

Thy  Sides,  with  the  curve  of  worship,  soft  as 

the  blush  of  springlight, 
what  is  the  song  of  their  praise,  in  the  golden 

throb  of  noonday? 

Thy  Back,  with  the  shy  smooth  shadows, 
what  doth  she  hide  from  thy  thoughts,  in  the 
still  reflections  of  slumber? 

Thy  Thighs,   springing  bravely  in  poise,    from 

the  dream  of  thy  inmost  being, 
what  is  their  silent  message,  to  the  Eyes  which 

behold  their  stillness? 
6 


Thy  secret  eternal  Organs,  creative  in  ecstasy, 
what  is  their  strong  brave  prayer,  praising  the 
living  God  ? 

Thy  Legs,  with  the  brave  firm  muscles, 
what  is  the  hymn  of  their  motion, 
propelling  the   suave   strong  Feet,  on  the  com 
mon  road  to  the  sunrise? 

What  do  they  say  to  thine  Heart? 
and  what  is  her  answering  music? 

Tell  me  the  song  of  thine  Heart,  O  beautiful 
nude  brown  Body. 

Tell    me    thy    musical    Word,    naked    and    un 
ashamed. 


And  his  Flesh  answereth  the  Poet: 
I  am  thy  singing  voice. 

Thine  Heart  heareth  not,  the  tides  of  my  music, 
but  the  stars  of  the  sea,  and  the  wind  in  the 
laughing  heavens. 

The   rushing  song  of  my  veins,   doth  laugh  in 

the  eyes  of  the  angels: 
the  harmony  of  my  music,  doth  ring  in  the  ears 

of  the  Most  High. 

And  one  day  there  cometh  silence,  and  thine 
Heart  shall  be  tuned  to  my  singing, 

and  in  the  valley  of  death,  thou  shalt  bow  to 
my  song  of  praise. 

7 


Flesh.    Then  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Flesh: 

Am  I  not  a  Poet,  and  do  I  not  see  thy  Beauty? 
Wherefore  then  shall  I  not  hear,  thy  song  of 
praise  in  my  youth? 


And  his  Flesh  answer eth  the  Poet: 

Truly  I  know  thee  now  not  as  other  men. 

For  thine  Heart  doth  call  unto  my  music, 
and  thy  Mouth  shall  give  voice  to  my  song. 

Hear  then  my  voice. 

I  am  the  substance  which  doth  free :  from  mine 
Heart  flow  the  waves  of  my  music. 

Flooding  the  heart  of  Heaven,  they  rise  to  the 
Feet  of  God. 

My  movement   is  born  of   desire,  and  longing 

awful  with  silence: 
my  movement  dieth  in  Love,  and  the  Heart  of 

Eternal  Rest 

Starlight   and   apple   bloom,   are   waves   of   my 

musical  weaving : 
water  and  tremulous  wind,  are  the  light  of  my 

singing  mesh. 

My  playing  doth  laugh  in  the  dawn,   and  smile 

on  the  golden  sun: 
it  sinketh  to  rest  in  the  evening,  and  slumbereth 

under  the  moon. 

8 


Body  of  earth  am   I,   and  Flame  of  the  lucid 

heavens : 
Light  shineth  forth  from  my  Side,  I  bless  thee 

with  candid  Hands. 


Then  his  Hands  say  unto  the  Poet: 

We  are  the   will  of  thy   Flesh :    we  are  thine 
Hands. 

The   purity    of   thy   Flesh,    cometh   out   of   the 

gleaming  Waters: 
the  shining  Light  of  thy  Flesh,  is  smooth  in  thy 

cleansing  Hands. 

We   are   the   laughter   of   water,   the   pallor   of 

dreaming  moonlight : 
we  bear  the  softness  of  vision,  to  thy  fair  brown 

tremulous  Sides. 

Sleek  as  the  breast  of  the  dove,  is  the  gentle 

Flesh  we  have  laven : 
silent  as  laughing  water,  under  the  silver  moon. 

The  Light  of  the  running  spheres,  doth  glisten 

under  our  Nails : 
Nails  with  the  twilight  flush,  at  the  heart  of  a 

folded  rose. 


Light  runneth  over  our  Palms,  singing  strange 

starry  secrets: 
Light  doth  sing  in  our  veins,  the  song  of  our 

grey-veiled  Will. 

9 


Flesh.  We  are  the  eyes  of  the  blind,  who  dip  in  the 

midnight  waters: 

we  are  the  ears  of  silence,  feeling  the  rhythm 
of  rest 

We  taste  the  wonders  of  touch: 
the  tremulous  secrets  of  being, 
elude  not  our  rosy-tipped  Fingers,  dawn-colored 
messenger  birds. 

And,  still,  in  the  evening  starlight, 
folded  in  adoration, 

we  dream  of  the  end  of  our  labor,  bow  to  the 
dove-white  Word. 


And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Hands: 
Peace  to  you,  O  mine  Hands. 

Into  you  now  I  commit,  the  passionate  dreams 

of  my  youth : 
into  you  now  do  I  set,  the  winged  words  of  my 

song. 

Lay  your  dawn-colored  Fingers,  upon  the  inno 
cent  paper, 

and  free  the  wings  of  my  verses,  from  the  sun 
lit  walls  of  my  Heart, 

that   they    may   fly    o'er   the   mirroring   waters, 

imaged  in  rippling  circles: 
and  gazing  therein  I  may  learn,  the  flame-white 

dream  of  mine  Eyes. 
10 


Then  his  Eyes  say  unto  the  Poet: 

We  are  the  dream  of  thy  Flesh :  we  are  thine 
Eyes. 

The  stars  gaze  upon  us,  in  wonder  and  adora 
tion : 

curtained  in  veined  Light,  we  surprise  the  secret 
of  song. 

Blood  drcameth  deep, 

and  the  nerve  of  our  single  musical  wonder, 
doth  whisper  the  shadowed  Word,  to  the  dream 
that  our  eyelids  bear. 

Light  doth  meet  us  with  joy,  as  the  Bridegroom 

cometh  unto  the  Bride ; 
of  our  marriage  are  born  white  dreams,  bearers 

of  peaceful  tidings. 

Dream 

weaveth  in  and  out  of  thy  Flesh,  through  our 

welcoming  vision : 
prayer  shineth  out  of  the  depths,  of  our  musical 

placid  pools. 

Color  we  fashion  in  streams,  and  fountains  of 

adoration  : 
form,   in  the  rhythm  of  peace,  is  born  in  our 

vision  of  worship. 

We   are   the   brimming   waters,   where    eternity 

meeteth   time ; 
and  white  in  the  shining  fields  of  our  childhood, 

the  candor  of  stars. 
II 


Flesh.   Light  giveth  praise  unto  Light,   from  morning 

unto  the  evening: 

from  evening  unto  the  morning,  Light  resteth 
on  fluttering  wings. 

And    the    gentle    wonder    of    sorrow,    is    thine 

through  our  patient  weaving : 
we  dream  of  the  end  of  our  dreaming,  bow  to 

the  dove-white  Word. 


And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Eyes: 
Peace  to  you,  O  mine  Eyes. 

Out  of  your  placid  depths,  rise  the  dreams  that 

fill  me  with  wonder: 
into    your    pools    of    Light,    they    sink    with    a 

murmur  of  prayer. 

Beckon  the  Light  of  dawn,  and  the  still  trans 
parence  of  evening, 
forth  from  the  singing  veil,  of  eternal  adoration. 

But  now,  O  mine  Eyes,  turn  to  the  mirroring 

waters  ; 
cast  your   dreaming   sight,   on   the    fair   brown 

Neck: 
and   gazing  thereon   I    may   learn,   her   flowery 

dream. 


Then  his  Neck  saith  to  the  Poet:  Flesk. 

I  am  the  flower  of  thy  Flesh :    I  am  thy  Neck. 

The  slender  Flower  of  thy  Flesh,  bloweth  fair 

in  the  pulsing  sunrise : 
she  doth  dream  of  the  golden  day,  in  the  placid 

hours  of  twilight. 

The    flowering    pillar    of    the    Body's    temple, 

adoreth  the  Holy  Ghost : 
in  the  morning  hours,  her  chalice  receiveth  the 

Bridegroom. 

Light  revolveth  around,  and  showereth  treasure : 
the    low    susurrus    of    slumber,    caresseth    her 
Beauty. 

Slender   and  yielding   as   wonder,   and   firm   as 

thought, 
her  dream  is  the  whisper  of  silence,  and  water 

springs. 

Wind  and  the  rippling  of  sunlight,  play  on  her 

gentle  petals: 
she  doth  bow  to  the  heart  of  the  night,  in  holy 

repose, 

dreaming  of  windy  fields,  where  angels  run  in 

the  grasses: 
dreaming  of  Heaven's  fields,  where  the  flowers 

in  choir 
sing  to  the  Most  High. 

13 


Flesh.  And  then  cometh  morning  Light, 
and  the  hymn  of  the  cock, 
and  the  old  watchdog,  barking  at  early  risers, 

and  lo !  in  the  East,  the  laughing  Eyes  of  the 

Bridegroom : 
she   doth   dream  of  the   end  of  her  flowering, 

bow  to  the  dove-white  Word. 


And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Neck: 
Peace  to  thee,  O  my  Neck. 

Blow,  happy  flower,  in  music  of  adoration : 
blow  in  the  morning  Light,  to  the  Eyes  of  the 
golden  Bridegroom! 

Whisper  a  prayer  in  the  evening, 
for  thou  hast  found  favor  in  His  sight: 
He  hath  gazed  on  the  work  of  His  Hands,  and 
saith  it  is  good. 

And  now,  O  mine  Eyes, 

cast   your    dreaming    sight,    on    the    high    calm 

beautiful  Shoulders : 
and  gazing  thereon  I  may  learn,  their  angelic 

song. 


Then  his  Shoulders  say  unto  the  Poet: 

We  are   the   song  of  thy  Flesh:    we   are  thy 
Shoulders. 

14 


The    gentle    song    of    our    Beauty,    doth    flow    Flesh. 

through  the  air  of  morning: 
doves  are  not   fairer,  nor  plashing  of  water  on 

sunlit  sands. 

Shadow    runneth    over    us,    and    Light    chaseth 

Light  in  our  veins: 
high  in  the  glow  of  noon,  we  rise  to  the  Sun  as 

our  Lover. 

Color   playeth   over   us,   and   imparteth   strange 

starry  secrets : 
the  Light  of  grace,  weaveth  in  and  out  of  our 

Beauty. 

We  are  the  Body's,  silent  aspiration: 
out   of   our    dreams,   grow   the   Spirit's   rustling 
pinions. 

Erect  and  calm,  by  the  shores  of  the  limitless 

ocean, 
we  sing  with  the  roar  of  the  tide,  into  the  Eyes 

of  the  Father; 
we  sing  with  the  laughter  of  stars,  hidden  under 

our  wings. 

Swimming  in  water  or  Light, 

we  part  the  elements,  bowing  before  our  Beauty: 

the  wind  doth  sing,  for  joy  that  we  are  fair. 

And    we    are    the    great    companions,    thy    twin 

guardian  angels : 
we  are  the  song  of  thy  Flesh,  as  it  dreameth  of 

the  Most  High. 

15 


Flesh.  Calm  as  remembered  loveliness,  we  shine  in  the 

crystal  pool: 

and  dream  of  the  end  of  our  song,  bow  to  the 
dove-white  Word. 


And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Shoulders: 
Peace  to  you,  O  my  Shoulders. 

How  you  are  fair  when  the  morning,  doth  wrap 

you  in  wings  of  sunlight: 
soft  is  your  repose,  as  the  prayer  of  a  maiden. 

And  you  are  strong  as  prayer,  as  you  shine  in 

the  pride  of  the  Body, 
singing  the  hymn  of  her  Beauty,   erect  in  the 

sight  of  the  angels. 

But  now,  O  mine  Eyes, 

cast    your    dreaming    sight,    on    the    laughing 

Bosom : 
and   gazing   thereon    I    may    learn,   her   hidden 

treasure. 


Then  his  Bosom  saith  to  the  Poet: 

I  am  the  shrine  of  thy  Flesh :   I  am  thy  Bosom. 

I  say  unto  thee,  that  man  knoweth  not,  the  flame 

of  my  adoration: 

planets  that  sing  in  choir,  and  crucifixions. 
16 


Stars   that   flow   in   my   veins,   are   urgent  with    Flesh- 

rushing  music : 
in  awful  silence  of  wonder,  I  receive  the  Flesh 

of  the  Bridegroom. 

Mine  is  the  laughter  of  fire: 
naked  as  Light  is  my  Beauty. 


I  am  thy  Body's  nest : 
and  I  am  warm. 


Light  playeth  through  me,  and  casteth  shadow 

soft  as  prayer : 
yet  my  Love  hath  tides,  that  roar  as  the  limits 

of  ocean. 


Gentle  as  the   water-spring,  when   I   touch  the 

breasts  of  the  Beloved : 
mine  is  the  fragrance  of  wind,  from  the  fields 

of  thyme. 

And  then  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  wrapped 

in  the  white  veil  of  slumber, 
thine  Arms  repose  as  a  cross,  on  my  altar  of 

benediction, 

and  I  dream  in  the  breathing  stillness,  hushed 

with  majestic  wings: 
dream  of  the  Host  in  the  shrine,  bow  to  the 

dove-white  Word. 

17 


Flesh.   And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Bosom: 
Peace  to  thee,  O  my  Bosom. 

How  clear  is  thy  smile,  in  the  rapture  of  con 
templation  : 

how  soft  is  thy  prayer,  rising  and  falling 
profoundly. 

Teach  me  the  source  of  thy  vision,  thy  rhythm 

of  aspiration : 
guard   my   slumber,   and   waken  my  dreams   to 

high  desire. 

And  now,  O  mine  Eyes, 

cast  your  dreaming  sight,  on  the  glorious  Arms : 
and  gazing  thereon  I  may  learn,  their  winged 
deed. 


Then  his  Arms  say  unto  the  Poet: 

We  are  the  pride  of  thy  Flesh :    we  are  thine 
Arms. 

Firm  in  the  glow  of  the  morning,  we  bear  thee 

over  the  waters : 
thy  dreams  rest  on  us  as  a  pillow,  in  the  watches 

of  the  night. 

We  are  the  will  of  thy  Shoulders,  flaming  with 

news  from  the  Body : 
we  trouble  thine  Hands  with  Beauty,  and  they 

obey. 

18 


Out    of    our    strength    ariseth,    the    Shoulders'    Flesh. 

aspiration  : 
the   secret   of   Light  floweth   down,   to   the   tips 

of  the  Fingers. 

Spring  doth  abide  in  us,  and  the  curve  of  wheat : 
the   flame   of   poppies,   doth    redden   under   our 
Flesh. 

And  then  cometh  summer  tan, 
and  the  wine  of  the  sun  doth  flood  in  our  veins : 
Life    thundereth,    in    the    ebb   and   flow    of    our 
tides. 

Low  as  the  rumble  of  thunder  on  distant  hills, 
or  the  echoes  of  toil,  that  rise   from  the  heart 

of  a  city, 
the  will  of  the  Body's  labor,  doth  roar  in  our 

rushing  channels. 

And  then  cometh  peace, 

and  the  stillness  of  earth  and  rain. 

Will  driveth  under  the  grass,  and  urgeth  flowers, 

to  blow  from  our  dust : 
we  dream  at  the  end  of  our  striving,  bow  to 

the  dove-white  Word. 

And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Arms: 
Peace  to  you,  O  mine  Arms. 

I  say  unto  you,  that  you  have  done  well  in  my 

service : 
you   have   earned    much,    O   good   and    faithful 

servants. 

19 


into  your  care  I  commit,  the  flame  of  my  Body's 

labor : 
you  shall  have  rest,  at  the  end  of  the  Master's 

harvest. 

And  now,  O  mine  Eyes, 

cast  your  dreaming  sight,  on  the  slender 
Fingers : 

and  gazing  thereon  I  may  learn,  their  flame- 
tipped  aspiration. 


Then  his  Fingers  say  unto  the  Poet: 

We  are   the   buds   of  thy   Flesh :    we   are  thy 
Fingers. 

As  the  sap  runneth  out  through  the  bough, 
so    doth    thy    dream    flow    forth    through    our 
fairness. 

Time  slippeth  past,  as  the  leaf  on  the  current: 
we  are  the  measure,  of  the  Eternal  stillness. 

The    dawn    doth    dream    under    our    iridescent 

nails: 
in  our  hidden  valleys  of  Light,  lieth  the  shadow 

of  evening. 

We  are  the   unborn   image:     Hope  is  our  un 
blown  Flower : 

white    as   the    laughter    of    maidens,    our    con 
templation. 

20 


We   tingle  with   rosy  mirth,   in   the   dewy  sun- 

light : 

chaste  in  the  dripping  pool, 
we  lave  the  Breast,  and  the  dreamy  Limbs,  and 

the  patient  Eyes. 

And    we    have    dipped    our    smoothness,    in    the 

Holy  Fountain  : 
we  make  the  Sign  of  the  Cross,  on  the  templed 

Forehead. 

Listen  unto  our  song,  in  the  fragrant  twilight, 
and  you  shall  hear  the  murmurous  humming  of 
bees,  drowsy  with  honey. 

Sweet    is    our   hushed    delight,    close    folded    in 

recollection  : 
we  dream  of  our  budding  Beauty,  bow  to  the 

dove-white  Word. 

And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Fingers: 
Peace  to  you,  O  my  Fingers. 

As  the  cool  wind  doth  ripple  the  calm,  of  the 

twilight    waters, 
so  doth  your  Beauty  laugh,  in  my  silent  Heart. 

Bless  me,  with  the  dew  of  your  holy  joy: 
you  are  the  Children,  of  the  Eternal  Rose. 

And  now,  O  mine  Eyes, 

cast  your  dreaming  sight,  on  the  curving  Sides : 
and  gazing  thereon  I  may  learn,  their  hymn  of 
worship. 

21 


Flesh.   Then  his  Sides  say  unto  the  Poet: 

We  are  the  mystery  of  thy  Flesh:    we  are  thy 
Sides. 

Palpitant  in  the  golden  noon,  by  the  shore  of 

the  ocean, 
revery  doth  repose,  in  our  silences. 

We  are  the  Seraphim,  of  the  Body's  temple: 
fair  are  our  curves,  as  the   lip  of  the  crystal 
vase. 

Verily  Light,  poureth  not  more  pure  from  the 

dayspring, 
than  Color  playeth,  under  our  softened  sheen. 

Springlight  runneth  merrily,  over  our  surface, 
even  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  doth  chase  the 
lambs  in  the  meadow. 

We  are  brothers,  unto  the  Morning  Stars: 
the  wind,  bringeth  us  tidings  of  their  music. 

The  wind  doth  hearken,  as  we  chaunt,  in  the 

open  spaces : 
Holy,  Holy,  Holy!  to  the  Most  High. 

Yet  know  we  not,  the  tides  of  our  mystic  being: 
Form  doth  shape  us,  chaste,  in  wonder  and  fear. 

Veiled  is  our  adoration,  and  pure  as  trumpets 
afar: 

we  dream  of  our  loveliness,  bow  to  the  dove- 
white  Word. 

22 


And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Sides: 
Peace  to  3-011,  O  my  Sides. 

How  you  are  gentle  birds,  sheltering  under  the 

eaves  of  the  Temple  : 
the  Heart  heareth  your  song,  and  doth  join  in 

3'our  prayer. 

Wells    of    Love,    would    I    might    rest    in    your 

waters  : 
reflecting  the  Face  of  the  Son,  in  your  fathom 

less   calm. 

But  now,   O   mine   Eyes,  turn  to  the  mirroring 

waters  : 

cast  3'our  dreaming  sight,  on  the  flowing  Back  : 
and  gazing  thereon  I  may  learn,  her  shy  reserve. 


Then  his  Back  saith  to  the  Poet: 

I  am  the  arch  of  thy  Flesh  :    I  am  thy  Back, 

flowing  with  ripple  of  Light,  from  the  high  calm 

beautiful  Shoulders, 
gravely  down   to  the   Haunches:    and  they  are 

fair  and  strong. 

The    secret    of    pain,    lieth    hidden    under    my 

music  : 
suave  as  the  petalled  flower,  is  my  Flesh. 

23 


Flesh.  I  am  the  curve  of  thy  Body : 

thy  musical  Word,  is   fulfilled  in  the  voice  of 

my  Beauty : 
in   my   smooth   gray   shadow,   lieth   the   strange 

mystery  of  thy  Will. 

The  pattern  of  Law,  doth  slumber  in  my  tex 
ture  : 
thy  Body's  syllable,  doth  stir  in  my  veins. 

White  in  the  circling  rays  of  the  summer  morn 
ing,  the  Cross  doth  hide  under  my  veil: 
at  evening  I  bend  in  prayer,  and  adoration. 

Reverent  are  thy  Fingers: 

tremblingly  they  touch,  the  yielding  hollows: 

verily,  I  am  a  nest  of  stars. 

I  say  unto  thee, 

if  thou  didst  once  know,  the  ineffable  mystery 

of  contact, 
thou  wouldst  go  lonely  and  silent,  all  thy  days, 

even  as  I  lie  silent,  carrying  thy  Body's  Syllable  : 
dream   of   the   end   of   my   silence,  bow  to  the 
dove-white  Word. 


And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Back: 
Peace  to  thee,  O  my  Back. 

Often  I  dreamed  of  thee: 
but  now  do  I  know,  the  secret  of  thy  stillness. 
24 


Now  am  I  glad  in  my  youth,  Flesh. 

for  that  I  bear  in  thee 

the  shadow,  of  the  first  Syllable  of  the  Name. 


But  do  you,  O  mine  Eyes, 

cast     your     dreaming     sight,     on     the     glowing 

Thighs : 
and    gazing    thereon    I    may    learn,    their    equal 

noise. 


Then  his  Thighs  say  unto  the  Poet: 

We   are   the   health   of   thy   Flesh :     we   are  thy 
Thighs. 

As  the  elm  doth  flourish,  expanding  in  fruitful 

vigor, 
so  are  we,  the  sturdy  trees  of  thy  Body. 

And  we  are  nourished  by  hidden  springs : 
the  sap  doth  circle,  higher  and  ever  higher, 
as  life  doth  run  in  the  elm,  rooted  in  fair  hill 
pastures. 

Urgent,  with  the  tide  of  the  flooding  veins, 
Matter  riseth,  unto  the  brim  of  our  vessels. 

Ebbing  with  inspiration,  it  sinketh  into  repose: 
we  are  the  living  flowers,  of  thy  Blood. 

Flushed  with  fire,  we  lie  in  the  summer  grasses, 
odorous,  with  twisted  eglantine. 


Flesh.   Heat  doth  lap  us,  with  singing  tongues  of  flame : 
the  locust,  doth  alight  on  our  glowing  Flesh. 

And  then  we   come,  to  the   murmuring  pebbly 

brook : 
cool  as  honey,  it  slaketh  our  burning  sides. 

We  bear  the  words  of  thy  secret  eternal  Or 
gans,  unto  thy  Body : 

we  dream  of  the  end  of  birth,  bow  to  the  dove- 
white  Word. 


And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Thighs: 
Peace  to  you,  O  my  Thighs. 

Flame    doth    dwell    in   you,    twin    guardians   of 

birth : 
the    flower    of    innocence,    lieth    furled   in   your 

music. 

And  you  are  the  poise  of  my  Flesh : 
you  are  fair. 

But  now,  O  mine  Eyes, 

cast  your  dreaming  sight,  on  the  secret  eternal 

Organs : 
and   gazing   thereon    I    may   learn,    their    awful 

creative  music. 


26 


Then  his  creative  Organs  say  unto  the  Poet:  Flesh. 

We   are   the   gates   of   thy  Flesh:    we   are   thy 
secret   eternal   Organs. 

Thou  shalt  reverence  us,  as  the  planets  bow  to 

their  sun  : 
we  are  thy  noblest,  prayer. 

Despise  us  not,  for  we  say  unto  thee : 

Thou   shalt  have   Life   hereafter,   even  as  thou 

dost  respect  us  now : 
we  are  the  gates,  of  thy  Flesh. 

The  Soul  hath  its  Seed,  as  the  Body : 
thou  shalt  sow,  in  fruitful  ground, 
warmed    by   grace,    and    watered   with    contem 
plation. 

Thou  art  holy  in  us: 
and  we  in  thee. 


We  say  unto  thee : 

See  that  thou  conceal  us  not, 

but  guard  us,  with  the  seal  of  reverence. 

As  the  heavenly  host,  are  concealed  by  flaming 

ramparts : 
so  is  the  starry  empyrean  of  thy  Flesh,  within 

our  gates. 

We  are  the  archangels, 
before  thy  throne. 

27 


Flesh.  Prostrate,  before  the  free  will  of  thy  creation, 
we  await  thee: 

dream  of  the  end  of  our  stillness,  bow  to  the 
dove-white  Word. 


And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  creative  Organs: 
Peace  unto  you. 

In    reverent    silence    I   hearken,    unto   your   ad 
monition  : 
you  are  the  archangels,  of  my  Flesh. 

Nor  shall  I  now,  conceal  you, 

but  guard  you,  with  the  seal  of  reverence: 

you  are  my  noblest,  prayer. 

Now,  O  mine  Eyes, 

cast  your  dreaming  sight,  on  the  Legs,  singing 

of  motion : 
and  gazing  thereon  I  may  learn,  the  hymn  of 

their  advance. 


Then  his  Legs  say  unto  the  Poet: 

We  are  the  pillars  of  thy  Flesh:    we  are  thy 
Legs. 

Motion  doth  sing  in  us,  the  hymn  of  thy  Will: 
urgent  as  grass,  and  the  wheeling  of  planets, 
thy  Flesh  groweth   from  us,  and  we   from  thy 
Flesh. 

28 


Fair  as  the  trunk  of  the  beech,  we  swell  from    Flesh. 

thy  beautiful  Ankles: 
the  flexure  of  thy  Knees,  doth  bend  in  freedom. 

Moved    by   the   Love  that   governeth   the   stars, 

we  advance  in  graciousness  : 
we  carry  thee,  to  the  goal  of  thy  aspiration. 


And  humble,  before  the  altar  of  thy  dreams, 

we  kneel,   in   contemplation, 

still  as  the  Breath  of  Life,  thou  dost  adore. 

And  we  are  fair  in  the  dance : 
we  govern  thy  Body's  poise,  and  her  genuflec 
tions. 


Thy  Body's  arch,  doth  rise  from  our  endurance : 
we    spring    from    the    passionate    roots,    of   thy 
blossoming  Flesh. 

From  thy  Thighs  with  the  health  of  thy  Body, 

circling  through  their  music, 
our  rhythm  floweth  down,  to  the  gracious  Feet. 

Light  poureth  not  more  loveliness  over  the  sky, 
than  dreameth  under  the  surface  of  our  Flesh : 
naked  as  Light,  we  lie  on  the  sunny  hill  : 
dream   of   the   end   of  our   motion,   bow   to  the 
dove-white  Word. 


29 


Flesh.  And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Legs: 
Peace  to  you,  O  my  Legs. 

How  you  are  sturdy  and  fair,  in  the  grace  of 

your  motion : 
you  bear  my  Body,  along  the  road  to  the  sunrise. 

And  even  as  the  sun  climbeth  unto  the  lofty 
zenith,  and  sinketh  into  the  rosy  waters  of 
evening : 

so  do  you  climb  through  Light,  and  bear  me  to 
rest  in  the  shadows. 

But  now,  O  mine  Eyes, 

cast  your  dreaming  sight,  on  the  chaste  brown 

Feet: 
and  gazing  thereon  I  may  learn,  their  innocence. 


Then  his  Feet  say  unto  the  Poet: 

We  are  the  roots  of  thy  Flesh:   we  are  thy  Feet. 

Thou   shalt  guard  our  path,  and  lead  us  unto 

the  sunrise : 
guide   our   steps,   that  we  may  bear  thee   with 

honor. 

Bare    us    unto    the    winds,    and    the    laughing 

waters : 
uncover    us,    that    we    may    touch    thy    mother, 

earth. 

30 


Gaze    on    our    innocence,    and   thou    shalt   learn 

the  mystery  of  touch : 
thine  Hands  know  not  earth  as  we : 
in  our   touch,   lieth   flame. 

We  are  brown  as  the  dust,  living  with  recollec 
tion  : 
chaste  as  air,  that  flowereth  in  the  breeze. 

We  are  the  perfect  arches,  of  thy  Body : 
behold   with   joy,   thy    Soles   and   thy   cushioned 
Heels. 

Full-blown  Flesh,  doth  shrine  thy  virgin  Ankles : 
behold  their  dreaming  veins, 
blue  as  the  sky,  or  purple  as  grapes  that  flush 
on  the  vine. 

Smile  on  us  with  thine  Eyes,  and  thou  shalt  see 
in  the  laughter  of  children  at  play,  or  the  morn 
ing  prayers  of  a  maiden, 
purity  not  more  white,  chastity  not  more  tender. 

Flowering  dust  are  we,  and  dusky  brown  as  our 

mother : 
we  dream  of  the   end   of   our  journey,  bow  to 

the   dove-white  Word. 

And  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Feet: 
Peace  to  you,  O  my  Feet. 

Into  you  now  I  commit,  the  passionate  paths  of 

my  youth  : 
into  your  care  do  I  set,  the  winged  ways  of  my 

journey. 


Flesh.  I   bare  you  unto   the   winds,   and  the  laughing 

waters. 
Lay  your  fairness  upon  our  mother,  earth. 

And  now,  O  mine  Heart, 

thou  hast  hearkened  unto  my  voice,  and  heard 

the  words  of  my  music : 
now  fain  would  I  listen  to  thee,  and  join  in  thy 

ardent  prayer. 


Then  his  Heart  saith  to  the  Poet: 

I  say  unto  thee : 

Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer,  in  the  song  of  thy 
Body's  members. 

Aspiration,    doth    ebb    from    thy    Flesh    in    the 

evening : 
inspiration,  floodeth  thy  Flesh  in  the  morning. 

I    am   the   moon,   that   ruleth   the   tides   of   thy 

Blood : 
my  prayer  doth  surge,  in  diastole  and  systole. 

The  will  of  thy  Blood,  doth  urge  thy  coursing 

veins : 
thy  Blood  is  a  book  of  planets,  graven  upon  the 

constellations  of  thy  Flesh. 

No  treasure  is  more  precious,  than  thy  Blood : 
its  Calvaries,  redeem  the  spheres  of  thy  Flesh. 

32 


I   say  unto   thee,  that  every   sand   in  thy   Flesh    Flesh. 

hath  its  crucifixions : 
resurrection    cloth    flower,    from   every    drop   of 

thy  Blood. 

Sand    calleth    out    unto    sand,    and    Flesh    unto 

Flesh  : 
drop    calleth    out    unto    drop,    and    Blood    unto 

Blood. 

Vein    doth    sing    unto    vein,    and    beloved    unto 

Beloved : 
dream   doth   aspire   unto   Dream,  and  thy  word 

unto  the  Word. 

And   the   Word   becometh    Flesh,   and   dwelleth 

within  thee : 
thy  Flesh  is  the  divine  Shadow,  thy  Blood  doth 

utter  the  Name. 


And  his  Blood  saith: 

The  Flesh  hath  its  sands,  and  the  flame  of  its 

mother,  earth  : 
The  Blood  doth  purify,  the  Flesh,  with  its  winds 

and    tides. 


Thy  Body   is   what  the   will,   of  thy  Flesh   and 

Blood  hath  decreed : 
thou  art  what  sand  and  flame,  and  wind  and  tide 

have  made  thee. 

33 


Flesh.   Then  his  Flesh  saith  to  the  Poet: 

Thou  art  the  ruler,  of  thy  universe : 

in  the  vast  spaces  between,  the  planets  and  stars 

of  thy  Flesh, 
the  Blood  doth  sing,  in  praise  of  the  Most  High. 

Behold  thy   Flesh,   in   the   Light   of   its   seeded 

stars, 
weaving    in    naked    dance,    the    music    of    the 

spheres. 

Light    crieth    out    unto    Light,    across    infinite 

spaces, 
myriad  songs  arise,  from  the  tips  of  thy  Fingers. 

In  the  curve  of  thy  Foot,  lieth  a  Milky  Way : 
streaming    with    music    sweeter,    than    vanished 

adoration, 
flooding  with   Love   from   afar,   as   it  toucheth 

the  sod. 


Thine    Eyes    have    depths    unmeasured,    by    the 

flight  of  thine   archangels : 
thine  Heart  hath  heights  of  prayer,  that  rise  to 

the  foot  of  the  throne. 

I  say  unto  thee,  that  the  song  of  thy  Flesh 
never  dieth : 

there  is  no  death, 

nor  doth  change,  quench  the  flame  of  her  sing 
ing  stars. 

34 


The    stars    of    thy    Flesh,    when    forgetfulness,    Flesh- 

seemeth  to  come  upon  thcc, 
part    and    die    into    Light,    combining    in    other 

songs. 

Yet  a  day  shall  come,  when  the  trumpet  call  of 
thy  Will, 

mingling  with  other  Wills,  in  abandon  of  adora 
tion, 

shall  summon  thy  stars  again,  to  their  old 
disposal, 

and  thou   shalt   arise  in   thy  Flesh,  mingling  in 

Love  with  thy  brethren  : 
resurrection    shall    flower    in    flame,    unto    the 

Father. 

Dust  unto   dust  thou   shalt  go,   and  Flesh   unto 

Flower : 
yet  thou  shalt  flame  at  the  end,  in  the  image  of 

the  Son. 

And    the     Spirit    ruleth    thee,    through     many 

changes : 
the   sod   doth   dream   of   thee,   and  thy   coming 

hour. 

Aspiration,  streaming  through  inspiration,  doth 
weave  the  first  Syllable  of  the  Name : 

whereof  thy  Flesh  and  thy  Blood,  are  the  per 
fect  shadow. 

And  aspiration  flowereth  in  sex : 
through    the    inspiration    of    sex,    the    Flesh    is 
reborn. 

35 


Flesh.  Wonder  of  Bridegroom  and  Bride, 
Flesh  calling  out  unto  Flesh, 
Light    overflowing   the    dykes,    of    the   heavenly 
ramparts, 

trembling     with     wonder,     and     troubled     with 

Beauty  breathing, 
how  the    Flesh   is    fair,   unto   the   Eyes   of   the 

Lover, 
and  she  shall  know,  the  mystery  of  Hands. 

And  shrined  in  the  Eyes  of  Lover  and  Beloved, 
each  doth  see  the  shining  Face  of  the  other : 

the  Face  is  the  Sacrament  of  Flesh  and  Blood, 
outward  and  visible  sign  of  inward  grace. 

Grace  floweth  out  unto  grace,  and  returneth  in 

harmony : 
the  Eyes  of  the  Lover,  are  the  Spirit's  music. 

Thy    Face    doth    shine,    on    sun    and   wind   and 

waters : 
they  are  what  thou  dost  make  them,  with  thy 

grace. 

Thou   shalt   make  thy  Body,   a  garden  of   fair 

delights : 
no  harmony,  is  more  pleasing  to  the  Most  High. 

The  Father  created  thee,  and  hath  said  thou 
art  good,  and  hath  rested  from  His  labors: 

guard  thy  Beauty,  and  offer  it  unto  the  Bride 
groom. 

36 


There    is    no    darker    evil,    than    to    neglect    the    plesh- 

Temple  of  thy   Spirit  : 
sweep  it  clean,  and  guard  the  holy  gates. 

Thou  shalt  do  no  despite,  unto  thy  Body : 
thou  shalt  not  mortify  thy  Flesh: 
thy    Flesh,    is    the    flaming    habitation    of    the 
Holy  Ghost. 

Flesh  and  Blood,  sing  naked  unto  the  Father : 
the  Morning  Stars,  join  in  their  spheral  chime. 

The  Son  descendeth,  naked  into  his  tabernacle: 
Eternal   Beauty,  flowereth  in  Time. 


The  Poet  rcuminctli  silent  in  adoration.     Then   he 
saith : 

Peace  to  thee,  O  my  Flesh. 

Mine  Heart  calleth  unto  thy  music, 

and  my  Mouth  doth  give  voice  to  thy  song. 

Thou  art  the  substance  which  doth  free  :  from 
mine  Heart  flow  the  waves  of  thy  music  : 

flooding  the  heart  of  Heaven,  they  rise  to  the 
feet  of  God. 

Thy  movement  is  born  of  desire,   and  longing 

awful  with   silence : 
thy  movement  dieth  in  Love,  and  the  Heart  of 

Eternal  Rest. 

37 


Flesh.  He  prayeth  unto   the  Father  and  the  Son  and  the 
Holy   Ghost: 

I  give  Thee  thanks,  that  Thou  hast  led  me  out 

of  the  bitter  ways,  and  unto  peace: 
vouchsafe    of    Thy    Goodness    strength,    that    I 

may  redeem  my  Body,  in  the  image  of  Thy 

Son  in  the  tabernacle, 
that  Flesh  and  Blood  in  me,  may  become  thy 

perfect  praise. 

And  even  as  my  Flesh  is  the   shadow,  of  the 

first  Syllable  of  Thy  Word, 
let  Thy  grace  shine  in  my  Heart: 
for    the    Word    becometh    Flesh,    and    dwelleth 

within  me. 


FLOWER. 

To   Paul  Claudel 

The  Poet,  naked  on  a  sunny  Hill,  speaketh  to  a  little 
Flower: 

Little  Flower,  open  thine  heart  and  tell  me,  why 
thou  dost  smile  and  blow  in  thine  innocence : 

thou  art  gentle  as  laughter,  and  pure  as  the 
wonder  of  children. 

Why  art  thou  so  wise,  and  fair  in  the  Grasses? 
Thou  art  little  as  Love,  and  fragrant  as  medi 
tation. 

Sunlight  laugheth  on  thy  Flesh,  and  on  mine : 
Little  brother  Flower,  whisper  to  me  thy  secret. 


And  the  little  Flower  doth  answer  the  Poet: 

Brother  Poet,  I  laugh  that  thy  Flesh  is  fair: 
I  laugh  that  Grass  is  green,  and  the  Wind  is 

cool : 
I  laugh  at  Color  and  Light,  in  adoration. 

The   Father  dreameth  of  me:    I   dream  in  the 

veins  of  the  Son : 
the   Spirit  guardeth  the   shadow   of   thy   Word, 

in  the  channels  of  my  petals. 

39 


Flower,   Even    as   yesternoon   thy   Flesh   hath   told   thee, 
the  Word  of  thy  Body,  naked  and  unashamed : 
so  thou  hast  shaped  my  Beauty,  in  thine  image. 

Flesh  unto  Flower,  floweth  in  silent  Music: 
Flower    smileth    at    Flesh,    doth    dream    of    the 
morrow. 

Light    streameth    forth,    from    thy    silent    coun 
tenance  : 
alas,  and  shadow  darkeneth  thine  Eyes. 

In  the  Light  of  thine  holiness,  our  face  is  fair: 
thy    shadow    cloudeth    the    Sky,    we    shine    no 
longer. 

Sun   and   Wind   and  Water,   are   even   as   thou 

dost  make  them; 
thy  Flesh  doth  reveal  to  us,  the  Word  that  we 

adore. 


Then  the  Poet  saith  to  his  Flesh: 

O   my  Flesh,    fair   living  temple  of  my  winged 

Soul, 
how   thou   art  brown   and   fair,   with   ripple  of 

Light  upon  thee. 

Beautiful   unto  tears,  thou   dost  lie  in  the   fra 
grant    Grasses, 

high  on  the  sunny  Hill,  against  the  blue  of  the 
Sea. 

40 


Thou  art  the  Foam  of  Light,  even  as  the  little    Flower. 

blowing  Flowers  around  thee : 
Grass  and  Waters  and  Air,  are  the  nest  of  thy 

gentle  Limbs. 

How  shall  the  Flower  of   Beauty,  open  to   me 

her  secret? 
Tell   me,    O    Flesh   in   flower,   the   Word  that   I 

must  say. 

And  his  Flesh  doth  answer  the  Poet: 

Flower  and  Flesh  are   fair,  as  thou  dost  create 

their  Beauty  : 
dream  of  Flesh  and  Flower,  in  the  image  of  the 

Word. 

Flower  shadoweth  Flesh,  as  Flesh  doth  shadow 

the  Word  : 
be  thou  pure  and  create,  Earth  and  Waters  and 

Sky. 

For  art  thou  not  a  Poet,  and  brother  of  all  that 

shineth? 
Speak  to  Earth  and  Waters  and  Sky,  and  thou 

shalt  hear. 


The  Poet  turneth  unto  the  Earth,  and  burleth  his 
Face  in  her  Grasses.  He  lieth  silent  in  won 
der;  then  he  saith: 

Far-flaming  Mother  Earth,  thou  who  hast  borne 

me  in  silence, 
under  the  garment  of  Dust,  and  glowing  dream; 


Flower.    Guardian    Mother    Earth,    with   brown    eyes    of 

compassion, 

thy  bosom   is  warm,  and   familiar  as  Music  in 
dusky  ways. 

If  I  have  ever  loved  thee,  O  Mother  Earth, 
hearken  unto  thy  child, 

and  cast  thine  eyes,  on  the  Flesh  that  thou  hast 
borne. 

Verily  thou  art  gentle,  as  doves  in  the  twilight: 
grant  thy  tired  child,  rest  in  the  dream  of  thy 
breast. 

Fain  would  I  return,  home  to  the  heart  of  our 

memories : 
hear  the  prayer  of  the  Sod,  and  the  murmurous 

Grasses ; 

breathe  the   forgotten   dreams,  of  thy   fragrant 

Flowers ; 
Body  to  trunk,  enclasp  the  singing  Tree; 

the   song  of   Hill   and    Plain,   and  the   running 

Hollows, 
murmur  and  rustle  and  silence,  would  I  hear. 


And  the  Earth  saith  unto  the  Poet: 
Peace  to  thee,  O  my  child. 

Lay  thine  Ear  to  the  Sod:    the  rumorous  Dust 

shall  whisper 
tidings  unto  thine  Heart,  of  the  lucid  fountain 

of  dreams. 

42 


Bury  thy  Face  in  the  Grasses:    flocks  of  angels    Flower. 
are  rustling 

before  the  shining  steps,  of  the  heavenly  Bride 
groom. 

Flesh  and  bark  of  the  Tree,  clasp  one  another 

as  brothers ! 
The  quivering  Birch,  hath  a  streaming  message 

for  thee. 

Lower  thine  Eyes  and  pray,  to  the  heart  of  the 
little  Flower : 

guide  thy  Feet,  over  shadowy  Plains  and  Moun 
tains  : 

Body  to  body,  yield  thy  Flesh  to  my  Dust  and 
forgotten  Flame. 


And,  as  the  Poet  doth  hearken,  the  Sod  saith: 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
Flame  of  birth  doth  glow,  in  thine  Heart  and 

in  mine. 

Spring    doth    arise    in    my    bosom,    in    burning 

Fires  of  silence: 
It  toucheth  the  winged  Seed :    she  taketh  root 

in  me. 

Summer  floweth  in  Light,  and  the  mystery  of 

Rains : 
she  dreameth  within  my  Dust,  and  I  flower  in 

Color. 

43 


Flower.   And  then  cometh  Autumn,  rich  in  the  yield  my 

dream  hath  rendered : 
Fire  gloweth  deep,  and  lieth  under  my  Body. 

And   Winter   bringeth   slumber,   unto   the   Flesh 

forsaken : 
she    resteth    under    the    hope,    of    the    coming 

Spring. 


I  say  unto  thee :   thy  Flesh  and  the  Dust  are  the 

substance  of  Music: 
speed  doth  flower  in  stillness,  into  form. 

The  Sons  of  the  Morning,  sing  from  thy  starry 

Flesh 
unto    the    Daughters    of    Evening,    under    the 

starry  Sod. 


Dust  unto  Dust  doth  sing,  and  Sod  unto  glow 
ing  Body: 

and  one  day  thou  shalt  join,  in  my  flaming 
Spring. 


Love  the  Dust,  as  thou  dost  love  thy  Beauty : 
one  day  thou  shalt  flower,  in  the  Clay. 

And  the  hour  cometh,  when  we  shall  arise  in  the 

morning, 
and  flame  on  high,  in  the  Light  of  the  Morning 

Stars. 

44 


Then  the  Grasses  sing:  Flower. 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
Tides    of    laughter,    flow    in    our    veins    and    in 

thine. 

We    are    an   emerald    forest.     The    locust    doth 

sing  in  our  bowers. 
Lose  thine  Heart,  in  our  shadowy  green  aisles. 

Breath  of   fragrance  dreameth,  under  our  shel 
tered  slumbers : 
even  as  incense,  before  the  Face  of  the  Father. 

We  are  the  little  crying,  Flames  of  Earth, 
rising  in   song,   through   the   stillness  of   brown 
Sod  breaking 

reverently,  in  Fire  of  consuming  worship 
mingled   with   Music   of   Color  and  whisper   of 
Rain. 

Wind,  weaveth  our  dance  with  the  dance  of  the 

angels, 

rushing,  in  laughter  of  praise  and  adoration, 
down  our  curving  lanes,  and  secret  windings. 

Stillness  of   summer  heat,   in   the  golden   noon 
tide 

lieth  deep,  on  our  little  thrusting  blades, 
radiant  and  lithe,  in  the  magic   fragrance. 

And  after  the  mystery,  of  veiling  Rain, 
we  are  cool  as  joy,  to  thy  shadowy  Flesh. 

45 


Flower.   We    play    with    the    Seraphim,    of    thy    Body's 

temple : 
we  are  the  angels  of  Dust,  to  thee  and  thine. 


Then  the  Flowers  in  the  Grasses  sing: 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
dance  with  us  in  wonder,  before  the  Son. 


Low  in  the  rumorous  Grasses,  we  run  from  the 

Sod, 
even  as  thou,  though  remembrance  doth  pull  on 

our  heartstrings. 

Rain  filleth  our  dreams,  with  forgotten  Beauty, 
echoes  of  long  ago,  and  departed  Earth-flames. 

We  are  little  Flowers,  alone  in  the  Grasses: 
we   laugh,  at  the   Sun  and  the   Larks  and  the 
silver  Clouds. 

Shy  Light,  doth  flood  through  our  azure  veins: 
the  fair  Limbs  of  the  Son, 

tremble  with  Beauty,  and  bloom  in  the  song  of 
our  fragrance. 

Windy  Waters,  and  streaming  rivers  of  Air, 
inhale  the  Blossom,  of  the  immortal  Rose, 
spreading  His   Petals,  over  the   dreaming  star 
light. 

46 


The  naked  Beauty,  of  thy  glorious  Flesh,        Flower. 

mixeth    Music   with   Clay, 

and  we  are  born,  in  the  image  of  her  singing. 

And  in  the  depths  of  our  loveliness,  sadder  than 

Dust   forsaken, 

Crucifixions  flower,  in  ecstasy  of  abandon, 
Constellations  call  unto  one  another,  in  anguish 

of  surrender,  dying  into  the  sound  of  Eternal 

Light. 


Then  the  Trees  sing: 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
hearken  unto  the  choir,  of  our  singing  boughs. 


And  if  ever  thine  Heart  hath  longed,  to  return 

to  the  heart  of  thy  Mother, 
come  unto  us  and  surrender,  thy  Body  into  our 

keeping, 
for  we  are  the  prayer  of  thy  Mother,  Earth,  on 

the  edge  of  Time. 

Arise  in  thy  brown  array,  and  join  us  in  adora 
tion, 
Body  to  body,  under  the  sunny  Leaves. 


Clasp  our  trunks,  weaving  the  dance  of  spring- 
light, 
ripple  of  Color,  and  curve  of  Limbs  and  boughs. 

47 


Flower.   We  are  the  limit  of  Lands,  high  as  the  flaming 

angels, 

bowing   and   rushing  with   Wind,   the  Tides   of 
sap  in  our  branches, 

hushing  at  twilight,  into  the  evening  silence, 
breathless    with    wonder,    under    the    midnight 
Stars. 

Tidings  of  Spring,  circle  under  our  surface, 
rising  in  summer  Heat,  and  falling  in  autumn 

Color, 
darkling  deep  into  Flame,  in  the  winter  stillness. 

Enter  us,  casting  thine  Heart  behind  thee : 
enter  into  our  bosom,  serene  and  unafraid. 

Forth   from  our  branches  glancing,  Light  shall 

glisten  upon  thee: 
Love  shall  wrap  thee  round,  with  the  Flower  of 

the  living  Flame. 


Then  the  Mountains  sing: 

How  thou  art  fair,  O  Flesh,  with  the  fragrance 

of  Light  upon  thee: 
turn  thine  Eyes  unto  our  Beauty,  gaze  on  high. 


Shadow  stealeth  away,   from  our  slopes  as  the 

sunlight  passeth, 

over  the  golden  path,  of  the  silent  Ocean : 
48 


passeth  over  thy   Flesh,   reclining  in  azure  pas-    Flower. 
tures, 

passeth    into   the   Heavens,   dreaming   of   resur 
rection. 

Out    of   the    Dream    which    bore    thee,    into   the 

Flame  of  Longing, 
thy    Beauty   passeth    in    Light,    and    flowing    of 

Wind: 

into  the  woven  Flower,  of  Light  and  Wind  and 

Waters, 
out    of    thine    holy    Flesh,    passeth    the    imaged 

\Vord. 

We  are   the    fairest  Fruit,   of   thy   longing  and 

aspiration : 
the  mist  of  loveliness,  exhaleth  from  our  dreams. 

And    we    are    thy    Mother's    breasts,    rising    and 

falling  in  Beauty, 
rich  and  fair,  and  soft  in  shapeliness. 

Lay  thine  Heart,  on  the  heart  of  thy  Mother, 

Earth : 

Breast  to  breast,  enter  into  her  silence, 
home  from  loneliness,  and  the  foreign  men. 

Lo  !  thou  art  weeping !     Come,  my  tired  child  ! 
Come    to    thy    Mother,    and    tell    her    thy    little 

secrets ! 
Rest  thine  Head  on  my  bosom !    Hush  thee,  and 

sleep ! 

49 


Flower.  And  the  Poet  saith  in  his  Flesh: 

Now  will  I  arise,  and  enter  into  thy  Beauty: 
for  I  have  loved  thee,  Flesh  of  my  living  Flesh. 

And  if  ever  a  prayer  doth  flower  in  thine  Heart, 

to  springs  of  remembrance, 
lull  me  to  dreams,  of  the  everlasting  Spring. 

Bathe    mine    Eyes,    in    the    crystal    fountain    of 

pity: 
give  me  to  drink,  of  the  silver  Waters  of  Light. 

Lay  on  mine  Heart,  the  compelling  Flame  of  thy 

Music: 
strengthen  my  Will,  to  flower  in  liquid  Fire; 

that   I    may   touch   the   Hearts,   of   the    foreign 

men: 
lead  their  Flame  unto  thine,   from  the  foreign 

wars. 


The  Poet  lieth  silent  in  prayer  for  a  little  space. 
He  turneth  unto  the  Waters;    then  he  saith: 

Far-flowing  Waters  of  Earth,  with  the  sorrow 

of  Life  in  thy  Music, 
under  the  ebb  and  flow,  of  thy  passionate  Waves 

and  Tides: 

wild-singing  Waters  of  Ocean,  thundering  Law 

eternal, 
on  the  strand  of  the  silent  Earth,  who  hearken- 

eth  unto  your  cry : 

50 


why  are  you  crying,  crying,  sobbing  under  your    Flower. 

surges, 
weaving  the  warp  and  the  woof,  of  the  dying 

Waves? 

And    why,    O    Water-Brooks,    with    the    merry 

shake  in  your  laughter, 
why  do  you   sing  of  joy,  as  you  dance  in  the 

rippling  sunlight? 

Teach  me  thy  gracious  poise,  O  Pool  with  the 

eyes  of  a  child  : 
bear   me   swiftly   and   far,   through   pastures   of 

recollection, 
River  of  peace  and  Light,  flowing  unto  the  Tide. 

And    O   ye   Lakes   and   Fountains,    still   as   im 
mortal   silence, 
cast  your  mantle  of  grace,  on  my  glowing  Body. 

Water,  cool  and  clear,   fold  thy  fairness  about 

me: 
wrap  my  flowering  Flesh,  in  the  sheath  of  thy 

candid  Streams. 


And  the  Waters  say  to  the  Poet: 
Peace  to  thee,  fair  child. 

Dip  thy  Face  in  the  Pool :    her  silver  laughter 

shall   whisper 
tidings  unto  thine  Heart,  of  the  lucid   fountain 

of  dreams. 


Flower.   Set  thy  brown  Feet  in  the  Water-Brooks:    the 

wings  of  thine  angel  are  rustling 
before  the  shining  steps,  of  the  heavenly  Bride 
groom. 

Flesh  and  Light  of  the  Lake,  stroke  one  another 

as  brothers: 
the  quivering  Waters,  have  a  message  for  thee. 

Lower  thine  Eyes,  to  the  marge  of  the  brimming 

River : 
guide  thy  Feet,  to  the  shores  of  the  murmuring 

Ocean : 
Body  to  body,  yield  thy  Flesh  to  my  Tide  and 

forgotten  dream. 

And,  as  the  Poet  doth  hearken,  the  Pool  saith: 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
how  thine  image  is  fair,  in  my  placid  Waters. 

Even  as  Light  doth  brood,  in  the  Heart  of  my 

silences, 
so  doth  thine  image  reflect  on  my  surface,  the 

Form  of  the  Son. 

The  Spirit  in  thee,  doth  rest  on  the  face  of  the 

Waters : 
creation  floweth  in  circles,  from  thine  Eyes. 

into    my    depths    commit,    the    Flower    of    thy 

Body: 
we  are  at  peace,  in  the  mystery  of  twilight. 

52 


Love  thy  Beauty,  and  bow  in  adoration  :  Flower. 

lower  thine  Eyes  and  fear,  for  an  angel  hath 
troubled  my  surface, 

and    lo !     Christ    walketh    again,    on    the    holy 

Waters : 
a  Wind  of  angels  hath  passed,  and  all  is  still. 

Flaming    with    Love,    awakened    in    white    re 
joicing, 
Color  stealeth,  across  my  lucid  peace, 

dawneth  in  hues,  rich  as  the  soul  of  a  Violet, 
fair  as  the  veins,  at  the  heart  of  a  Folded  Rose. 

Rejoice,  O  Earth  and  Sun,  rejoice,  O  Airs  and 

Grasses, 
the  Flower  of  Color  and  Light,  is  born  again 

in  Time, 

the  Mystical  Rose  hath  blown,  her  petals  open 

in  wonder, 
Flesh  doth  flower  in  Light,  and  Water  receiveth 

a  Sign. 

Then  the  Water-Brook  doth  sing; 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
hearken  unto  my  song,  of  laughing  joy. 

Brown  Feet,  brown  Feet,  come  unto  my  shal 
lows, 

Water  lappeth  your  Ankles,  arched  in  my  crys 
tal  stream. 

53 


Flower.   Dip  thine  Hands,  in  flowing  silver  Music: 
bathe  thine  Eyes,  in  euphrasy  of  sunlight. 

Floating,  floating,  Flower  of  golden  noonday, 
glide  along  my  currents,  shadowing  my  Sands. 

Day  is  streaming  past  us,  on  into  the  sunrise, 
laugh  and  sing  in  moonlight,  morning  dawneth 
far. 

Cool  as  recollection,  soft  as  meditation, 
Water  floweth  with  thee,  Time  doth  glide  away. 

Far  into  the  sunrise,  Light  and  Water  bear  thee, 
home  into  the  dawning,  Flower  unto  Wind. 

The  Morning  Stars  before  us,  the  song  of  Larks 

above  us, 
Wind  in  Flower  flameth :   the  Son  is  on  the  Sky. 

Holy !  holy !  holy !  flaming  Flower  of  sunrise, 
how    my    Heart    hath    borne    me,    unto    Ocean 
strands. 

Holy !  holy !  holy !  streaming  Flesh  in  Flower, 
Light   hath    risen    fresh,    and   floweth   o'er   the 
Lands. 


Then  the  Lake  doth  sing: 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
dip  thy  Side,  in  my  lonely  rippling  Light. 

54 


Thy   Mother,    Earth,   lieth   still,   in   the   mystery    Flower. 

of  the  Godhead : 
silence  slowly  trembleth,  into  passionate  sound. 

Even  as  thou  art,  awful  in  Flesh  and  Flower, 
lay   thine    holy    smoothness,    upon    my    windless 
Waters. 

stir  my  dreaming  stillness,  with  loveliness  im 
mortal  : 

curve  unto  circling  curve,  weave  the  pattern  of 
wonder : 

widening    to     spheres    of     Light,    and     singing 

rhythm, 
flowing    into    the    sunset,    Bridegroom   unto    the 

Bride, 
reverently  touching,  Flesh  doth  marry  the  Word. 

And    O,    if   ever   thine    Heart  hath    longed,    for 

Beauty  white  and  eternal, 
fair  as  the  Face  of  the  Father,  and  sad  as  the 

Eyes  of  the   Son, 

bury  thy  Love   in   my   Skies,   ensphered  on   my 

glowing   Waters, 

yield  thy  passionate  prayer,  in  lucid  reflection  : 
flower  in  Wind  and  Sky,  and  Color  of  Spring. 

April,  April,  laugheth  upon  my  bosom : 
white   April   flowereth,   in   Blossom   and   Clouds 
of  Spring  : 

April,  April,  laugheth  in  flowery  showers, 
holy  April  streameth,  in  Light  before  the  King. 


Flower.   Then  the  Rivers  sing: 


Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
lo !  we  have  journeyed  together,  out  of  the  walls 

of  Time. 

Dost  thou  recall  the  morning,  under  the  blos- 

somy  Branches, 
when  we  rejoiced  together,  as  Galahad  rode  by? 

Out  of  the   singing  sunrise,  Wind   and   Water 

streaming, 
Light   fell  on  thine  Eyelids,  Dawn  flowered  in 

prayer. 

Flowers  ran  in  gladness,  through  thy  golden 
pastures, 

Flowers  laughed  and  dreamed,  within  thy  dawn 
ing  Eyes. 

Stars   flew  over  our  Flesh,   Stars   sang  in  our 

Blood, 
the   angels   bowed   in   awe,   before   thy   flaming 

Throne. 

Instant  as  recollection,  flowing  over  our  Bosom, 
the    Host   arose    in    our    Body,    and   there    was 
silence  in  Heaven. 

And  raising  thy  star-soft  Eyes,  they  beheld  the 

Feet  of  the  Son, 
gently  walking  the  Waters,   clad  with  Flowers 

and  Foam. 

56 


Flesh    unto    Flower   of   April,   and    Flame    unto    Flower. 

Autumn  Wind, 
circling  veins  of  Music,  rose  around  the  Son, 

Light  with  Beauty  breathing,  Body  unto  Body, 
Flame  of  Love  consuming,  Flesh  and  Flower  in 
Tide, 

Lover  clasping  Lover,  naked  Bride  and  Bride 
groom, 
Word  and  Flesh  commingling,  Eternity  in  Time. 


Then  the  Ocean  doth  sing: 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
why  art  thou  silent  and  still,  in  the  Light  of  my 

murmurous  Sands? 


Thine  Heart  hath  led  thy  steps,  to  the  ways  of 

the  Sea: 
down    to    the    salt    sea    ways,    out    of    shining 

pastures. 

I  say  unto  thee,  Arise !  thine  hour  hath  come ! 
Plunge   thy   singing   Limbs,   in   the   roar   of   my 


Even  as  thy  Flesh  is  pure,  in  the  sight  of  the 

Father, 
enter  into  the  prayer,  of  my  living  Waters, 

57 


Flower.    Follow   the   land   Wind,   over   the   shining   sun- 
path  : 
bathe  in  unknown  Seas,  by  forgotten  Lands. 

Borne  over  streaming  Waters,  to  far  horizons, 
die  into  living  Day,  from  singing  Foam. 

Ebb  on  with  me,  across  the  sunset  Tide, 
and  float,  beyond  the  Waters  of  the  world, 

the  Light  of  evening,  slipping  from  thy  Side, 
thy  softened  Voice,  in  waves  of  silence  furled. 

Flow  on,  into  the  flaming  morning  wine, 
drowning  the  Land  in  Color.     Then  on  high 

rise  in  thy  candid  innocence,  and  shine 
like  to  a  poplar,  straight  against  the  Sky. 


And  the  Poet  saith  in  his  Flesh: 

Now  will  I  arise,  and  enter  into  thy  Beauty: 
for  I  have  loved  thee,  Tide  of  the  living  Tide. 

And    if    ever    a    prayer    doth    flow    from   thine 

Heart,  in  waves  of  compassion, 
bear  me  away,  into  everlasting  Summer. 

Bathe  mine  Eyes,  in  the  azure  Waters  of  purity : 
give  me  to  drink,  of  the  opal  Waters  of  Light. 

Lay  on  mine  Heart,  the  compelling  flood  of  thy 

Music : 
strengthen  my  Will,  to  pour  forth  liquid  Fire; 

58 


that  I   may  touch  the   Hearts,  who  know   thee    Flower. 

not: 
lead  them  home  to  thee,  from  foreign  strands. 


The  Poet  lieth  silent  in  prayer  again  for  a  little 
space.  He  turneth  unto  the  Airs  of  Heaven; 
then  he  saith: 

Far-flying  Airs  of  Heaven,  shrining  the  Son  in 

silence, 
under  the  streaming  Light,  of  your  awful  Arch, 


guardian    angels,    of    Flesh    and    Flower    and 

Foam, 
your   eyes   are   fair  and   soft,  as  those  of  your 

Mother  enskied. 


What  are  the  words  of  the  Winds,  as  they 
sweep  through  the  Clouds  and  the  Grasses? 

Wrhat  do  they  sing  to  the  Waters,  that  echo 
their  sounding  hymn? 


Prostrate  in  adoration,  before  the  Host  on  thine 

altar, 
what    is    the    heart    of    thy    mystery,    Light,    O 

streaming  Grail? 


And  O  thou  flaming  image,  of  naked  pity, 
what   dost  thou   say   to   mine   Eyes,   O    Sun   on 
high? 

59 


Flower.   Teach  me  thy  silver  Music,  O  lady  Moon, 

guiding    the     wanderer    home,    over    shadowy 

Waters, 
shy  as  immortal  loveliness,  gone  by. 

Wind,  Light,  Sun  and  Moon,  and  singing  starry 

chorus, 
of    whom    do    you    dream,    before    the    radiant 

Throne? 


And  the  Airs  of  Heaven  say  to  the  Poet: 
Peace  to  thee,  dear  child. 

Strip    thy    Flesh    to    the    Wind:     the    rippling 

Breezes  shall  whisper 
tidings  unto  thine  Heart,  of  the  lucid  fountain 

of  dreams. 

Bare  thy  Body  unto  the  Light :  pinions  of  Flame 
are  rustling 

before  the  shining  steps,  of  the  heavenly  Bride 
groom. 

Flesh  and  Flower  of  the  Sun,  mingle  together 

as  lovers : 
the  quivering  sunlight,  hath  a  message  for  thee. 

Lower  thine  Eyes  and  pray,  to  the  heart  of  our 

lady  Moon : 
lift  thine  Heart,  to  the  chant  of  the  Morning 

Stars : 
Body  to  body,  yield  thy  Flesh  to  our  Light  and 

forgotten  Word. 

60 


And  as  the  Poet  doth  hearken,  the  Winds  sing:          Flower. 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thce, 
hearken  unto  the  Winds,  that  blow  the  Stars  to 

Flame. 

Bend  thine  Ear  unto  the  Winds,  that  bear  thee 

forgotten  tidings : 
unto  the   starry  Winds,  that  bring  thee  tidings 

of  joy. 

The  sorrow,  and  the  silence  of  dying  worlds, 
cry  unto  thee  from  the  Stars,  O  Flesh  in  Flower. 

Out  of  thine  Heart  doth  flow,  the  Will  of  our 

restless  journey : 
into    thine    Heart    doth    return,    the    answering 

message  for  thee. 

North,  south,  east,  west,  we  bring  thee  the  choir- 
ings  of  Heaven  : 

we  are  the  captains  of  Light,  weaving  the  Morn 
ing  Stars. 

Arise  in  thy  Light  and  come,  with  gladness  over 
the  evening: 

stream  with  us  in  joy,  over  the  flaming  ram 
parts  ! 

Bathed  in  the  Music,  of  Planets  in  adoration, 
weave   the   web    of   the    Stars,    O    Son   of   the 
Morning ! 

61 


Flower.    All  creation  shall  flow   from  thy  flute,  if  thou 

dost  breathe  desire: 

play   on    thy   trembling   Flesh,    in   the   Light   of 
loveliness. 

Arise,  O  Flesh,  in  color,  and  warm  with  rosy 

wonder, 
enter  into  the  chorus,  guide  the  flaming  hymn, 

till    the    Rose    of    the    World    shall    flower,    in 

ecstasy  of  abandon, 
and    Light    shall    seal    thine    Eyelids,    with    the 

Wind  of  the  Father's  Eyes! 


Then  Light  doth  sing: 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
still,  and  whiter  than  morning  on  the  Hills, 

smile  on  thy  brother  Light,  who  hovereth  over 

thy  fairness : 
silver   Clouds   of   joy,   are    flocking   across   thy 

Bosom. 

Rippling  streams  of  wonder,  flow  in  thine  azure 
channels : 

the  soft  transparence  of  evening,  watcheth  un 
der  thy  Veins. 

Dream  of  windy  Light,  in  the  haunted  Meadows: 
dream  of  sunlight,  in  flower  across  the  Plain. 
62 


Behold!  the  Eyes  of  the  Bridegroom,  are  smil- 

ing  upon  thee, 
lovely  brimming  Waters,  of  solitude. 

Thou    art    the    Light,    of    the    shadow-haunted 

Dayspring : 
thy  Color  fioweth,  in  and  out  of  the  Firmament. 

Weave  me  into  thy  songs,  and  offer  them  unto 

the  Father: 
so  shall  I  not  have  woven,  my  song  in  vain. 

Dawn    doth    dream    in    thy    pattern,    to    hidden 

flowerings  : 
the  secrecy  of  Night,  curleth  within  thy  Blood. 

Flaming  Dust,  awful  in  lonely  Beauty, 
lend  me  thy  nakedness,  that  I  may  die, 

and  rising,  fulfilled  in  Flesh,  as  the  Will  of  the 

Father  commandeth, 
I    may    shine   in    deed,   as   through   thee    I    now 

shine  in  the  Word. 


Then  the  Sun  doth  sing: 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
come  to  me  over  the  Waters,  clad  with  Flowers 

and  Foam. 

And  if  ever  thy  flaming  Heart  hath  longed,  for 

the  flaming  Heart  of  the  Sun, 
come  unto  thy  desire,  visioned  within  thy  Blood. 

63 


Flower.    Rising    in    golden    silence,    out    of    thy    mother 

Night, 

the  pure  and  shimmering  Host,  shineth  over  the 
silver  Waters, 

setting  in  golden  Music,  into  the  clouded  West, 
passionate  with  awe,  before  the  burning  Grail. 

Thy  Body  uplifteth  my  Light,  as  a  monstrance 

over  the  Waters: 
thou  art  within  my  arms,  as  the  Word  in  the 

Tabernacle. 

Arise,  my  Love,  my  Dove,  and  shine  forth  over 

the  heavens : 
Arise,  my  Love,  and  come,  to  the  nest  of  the 

Wind  and  Stars. 

Arise  in  thy  brown  array,  from  the  Sod  and  the 
murmurous  Grasses : 

Arise  from  the  branching  Boughs,  and  the  whis 
pering  ways  of  the  Forest. 

Arise     from     the     laughing     Brooks,     and    the 

haunted  Pools  of  silence : 
arise,  my  Dove,  and  come,  to  the  fountain  of  the 

Dayspring. 

Arise  in  thy  glowing  Flesh,  from  the  streaming 

Rivers  of  morning: 
arise  from  the  passionate  Waters,  in  Light  and 

laughter  of  Flame. 

64 


For  behold  !  the  Bridegroom  cometh,  across  the 

still  Airs  of  twilight : 
He  cometh  unto  the  Bride,  in  Wind  and  whisper 

of  Rain. 

Then  the  Moon  doth  sing: 

Brother    Flesh,    with    the    fair    delight    of    thy 

Beauty  upon  thee, 
I  am  thine  image  in  loneliness,  I  am  thy  guarded 

dream. 

I  am  the  kindness  of  Time,  shining  over  eternal 

forests : 
tender    as    maiden     prayer,    and    gentler    than 

adoration. 

Dost  thou  recall,  the  earliest  hint  of  Autumn : 
the  first  faint  coolness,  of  recollected  evenings? 

Out  of  thy  Body  trembled,  the  ripple  of  moon 
light  Waters, 

rich  and  very  full,  with  the  silent  promise  of 
harvest. 

Then  rest  thee,  rest  thee,  softly  in  thy  slumbers: 
white  Light  shall  cradle,  all  thy  flowing  Limbs. 

Light  upon  thy  Bosom,  lieth  gently  sleeping : 
floodeth  all  thy  visions,  with  the  flight  of  wings. 

Light  along  thine  Arms,  runneth  to  thy  Fingers : 
the    Flower    of    Beauty    bloweth,    in    the    windy 
Airs. 

65 


Flower.    Light  in  thy  Flesh,  and  thy  Blood,  chaunteth  her 

starry  secrets : 

Light   in   thy  veined   Eyes,   dreameth   of   resur 
rection. 

Light !  Light !  Light !  dying  in  Color  and  Music ! 
Light  on  the  fragrant  Shore !    Light  in  the  Stars 
and  the  Sod ! 

Light   running   over   thy    foamy    Side,   laughing 

and  dreaming  in  Color ! 
Light  lying  still  on  thy  Flesh,  the  naked  Shadow 

of  God! 


Then  the  Morning  Stars  arise  and  sing: 

How  thou  art  fair,  O  Flesh,  with  the  fragrance 

of  Light  upon  thee  ! 
We   bow   with    Heaven   and   Earth,   before  thy 

flaming  Throne. 

Lift  thine  Eyes  and  smile !     The   Stars  on  the 

windless  Waters, 
veil  their  faces  before  thee,  O  shadow  of  Light 

in  Time ! 

Arise,  O  daughters  of  Evening,  under  the  starry 

Sod! 
Proclaim    to    the    silent    Airs,    the    rumor    of 

heavenly  Spring ! 

The  Winter  is  over  and  gone :    the  Seed  doth 

flower  in  the  heavens : 

unfurl  upon  the  Sky,  the  banner  of  the  Stars ! 
66 


For  lo!  the  holy  Dove,  flieth  over  the  listening    Flower. 

Waters : 
the  breathless  Airs,  are  rumorous  with  wings ! 

Flame  in  the  frozen  Earth,  O  budding  Flowers 

of  springlight ! 
Rise   in  your   green  delight,  and  hail  the  risen 

King! 

Flame    in    the    crying    surges,    secret    Tides    of 

April ! 
Cover    the    Land    with    Foam,    and    laughter    of 

living  Spring! 

Flame  in  the  heights  and  the  deeps,  Wind  and 

Waters  obeying ! 
Flame  on  the  Hills  and  the  Plain !    Flame  on  the 

dreaming  Snows ! 

Flame,    O    Sun    and    Moon !      Flame,    expiring 

Planets ! 
Flame  with  the   Seraphim,   in   the  heart  of  the 

Mystical  Rose ! 

Flame,  O  Death  and  Birth, -in  the  Body's  pas 
sionate  wars ! 

Flame,  O  Word  made  Flesh,  in  the  Light  of  the 
Morning  Stars ! 


And  the  Poet  saith  in  his  Flesh: 

Now  will  I  arise,  and  enter  into  thy  Beauty : 
for  I  have  loved  thee,  Light  of  the  living  Light. 

67 


Flower.   And  if  ever  a  prayer  doth  flame  in  thine  Heart, 

to  fires  of  Love, 
bear  me  away,  into  everlasting  Day. 

Bathe    mine    Eyes,    in    the    healing    Waters    of 

Beauty : 
give  me  to  drink,  of  the  living  Waters  of  Life. 

Lay  on  mine  Heart,  the  compelling  Flower  of 

thy  Music; 
strengthen  my  Will,  to  flame  in  liquid  Fire ; 

that  I  may  touch  the  Hearts,  who  live  in  Time: 
lead    them    home    to    the    Light,    from    foreign 
plains. 

And  his  Flesh  saith  unto  the  Poet: 

Flower  and  Flesh  are  fair,  as  thou  dost  create 

their  Beauty : 
dream  of  Flesh  and  Flower,  in  the  image  of  the 

Word. 

Flower  shadoweth  Flesh,  as  Flesh  doth  shadow 

the  Word: 
be  thou  pure  and  create,  Earth  and  Waters  and 

Sky. 

Then  the  little  Flower  saith: 

Brother  Poet,  with  the  fair  delight  of  thy  beau 
tiful  Flesh, 

behold !  I  have  told  thee  the  song,  thy  Body  and 
Soul  have  woven, 

out  of   Earth   and   Water,   and   windy   Airs   of 
Time. 

68 


I  am  the  golden  shadow,  of  thy  Spirit :  Flower. 

gaze  in  my  shining  cup,  and  thou  shalt  see 
the  image  of  thy  Beauty,  in  its  petals. 

And  even  as  thou  art  Body  and  Blood,  in  the 

Image 
of  the  Sacred  Body  incarnate,  of  the  Son, 

so  is  thy  daughter  Nature,  born  of  thy  dreaming, 
Body  and  Blood  in  thine  image,  Color  and  Light. 

Out  of  my  tiny  heart,  thine  Eyes  shall  see 
the  Sacred  Body,  pulsing  in  starry  tune, 
if  thou  art  pure  and  humble,  as  a  Flower. 

The  Beauty  of  Sea  and  Sod,  and  flowering  Sky, 
is  the  trembling,  of  thy  Beauty's  adoration, 
dreaming  of  thine  own  loveliness,  in  Time. 

And  adoration,  flowereth  in  Matter, 

whose  awful  motion,  hardeneth  into  stillness. 

For  I   say  unto  thee  that  thine  Eyes,  may  not 

see  the  speed  of  thy  weaving, 
and  live  to  know,  thy  naked  loveliness. 

And  I  say  unto  thee, 

that    Nature    is    nought   but   the   Word,   of   thy 

Body's  emanation 
uttered  eternally,  on  the  shores  of  Time. 

But  the  meaning  of  that  Word,  is  long  forgotten, 
till  passion  of  dying  Beauty,  createth  Flame. 
60 


Flower.   Arise  in  thy  Body's  passion,  of  creation, 
clothing  itself  in  images,  as  God 

doth  clothe  His  Body,  through  all  eternity, 
in    the    passion    of    naked    Beauty,    and    dying 
worlds. 

Spell  thy  Body,  upon  the  flaming  Sky, 

spell  it  in  adoration,  upon  the  Stars, 

spell  it  in  Earth  and  Waters,  and  windy  Airs, 

and    lo !    their    Beauty,    shall    tremble    in    thine 

image, 
and  the  speed  of  thy  dreams,  shall  harden  into 

Form. 

Give  thy  Body  gladly,  with  a  prayer, 

till  Life  turns  inward,  to  the  heart  of  silence. 

So  shalt  thou  at  last,  know  white  horizons. 

Gaze  at  Sun  and  Sod,  in  contemplation ; 
smile  at  Beauty  gladly,  Face  to  face, 
twin  mirrors,  of  a  single  singing  Dream. 

Let  the  white  magic,  of  thine  holy  Music, 
weave    Woods    and    Fountains,    in    thy    Body's 
prayer. 

For  the  day  is  nigh,  when  thy  Morning  Stars 

shall  sing 

their  lives  away  with  thee,  to  the  Living  God. 
70 


The  Poet  remaincth  silent  in  adoration.     Then  he   flower, 
saith: 

Peace  to  thee,  O  Flower  of  my  living  Flesh. 

Mine  Heart  doth  utter  thy  Music, 

and  my  Mouth  doth  give  voice  to  thy  song. 

Even  as  ycsternoon  my  Flesh  hath  told  me,  the 

Word  of  my  Body,  naked  and  unashamed : 
so  have  I  shaped  thy  Beauty,  in  the  Image 
of  the  Son  whose  Shadow  shineth,  in  Flesh  and 
Flower. 


And  he  praycth  unto  the  Father  and  the  Son  and  the 
Holy  Ghost: 

I  give  Thee  thanks,  that  Thou  hast  woven  from 

me, 
the  Flower  of  Thy  living  Image,  in  my  Flesh; 

and  even  as  my  Flesh  doth  flower,  in  Sun  and 

Wind  and  Waters, 
uttering  the  Second  Syllable,  of  Thy  Word, 

let  the  Flower  of  Thy  Grace  shine  in  mine 
Heart,  and  open  its  petals  over  the  arching 
heavens ; 

for  the  Word  becometh  Flesh,  and  dwelleth 
within  me. 


LYRICS. 


THE   WHISPER   OF   EARTH. 

A  Lucien  Rohncr. 

IN  the  misty  hollow  shyly  greening  branches 
Soften  to  the  south  wind,  bending  to  the  rain. 
From  the  moistened  earthland  flutter  little  whispers, 
Breathing  hidden  beauty,  innocent  of  stain. 


Little  plucking  fingers  tremble  through  the  grasses, 
Little  silent  voices  sigh  the  dawn  of  spring, 
Little  burning  earth-flames  break  the  awful  stillness, 
Little  crying  wind-sounds  come  before  the  King. 


Powers,  dominations  urge  the  budding  of  the  crocus, 
Cherubim  are  singing  in  the  moist  cool  stone, 
Seraphim  are  calling  through  the  channels  of  the  lily, 
God  has  heard  the  earth-cry  and  journeys  to  His 
throne. 


IRISH. 

To  Bliss  Carman. 

MY  father  and  mother  were  Irish, 
And  I  am  Irish,  too; 
I  pipe  you  my  bag  of  whistles, 
And  it  is  Irish,  too. 


Irish.      'T  will  sing  with  you  in  the  morning, 
And  play  with  you  at  noon, 
And  dance  with  you  in  the  evening 
To  a  little  Irish  tune. 


For  my  father  and  mother  were  Irish, 
And  I  am  Irish,  too ; 
And  here  is  my  bag  of  whistles, 
For  it  is  Irish,  too. 


THE   MESSENGER. 

To  Algernon  Blackwood. 

SPRING  on  his  eyelids, 
And  spring  on  his  heart, 
The  sunlight  of  April 
Set  him  apart. 


Fairer  than  twilight, 
And  softer  than  dew, 
The  goal  of  his  longing 
He  never  knew. 


But  once  in  the  evening 
When  earth  lay  in  prayer, 
A  breeze  from  the  westward 
Stole  over  his  hair. 

76 


TO    THE    FOREST    WAYS. 
To  Walter  de  la  Marc. 
I 

FAIR-WINGED  angel  of  the  dreaming  trees, 
Adoring  power  of  loneliness  and  light, 
From  out  the  forest  of  thy  memories 
The  mystery  of  twilight  strearneth  bright. 
Thine  eyes  are  soft  with  laughter,  heaven  above 
Haunteth  thy  presence  with  her  rich  repose, 
Where  woodways,  rumorous  with  silence,  free 
The  starry-bodied  dove, 

Whose  quivering  worship,  like  stilled  music,  flows 
Into  the  distant  heart  of  ecstasy. 

II 

There  is  a  magic  spell  upon  the  wind, 
As  though  all  dust  were  flaming  into  sound. 
The  brooding  hour  of  slumber  now  doth  bind 
Wild  beauty  into  pattern  on  the  ground, 
Whilst  thou,  the  mother  of  auspicious  sleep 
And  sacred  dreaming,  bendest  over  sod 
And  leaf  and  bud  in  fond  solicitude, 
And  where  dim  shadows  leap, 
Hushed  wings  reveal  the  passing  of  a  god 
Across  the  forest's  rustling  solitude. 

Ill 

I  fly  with  thee  far  down  the  forest  ways, 
Immortal  stillness  dripping  from  the  leaves, 
To  lie  with  thee  eternal  nights  and  days 
Beneath  the  boughs  the  flooding  moonlight  grieves, 

77 


To  the  For-  And  waken  with  white  fragrance  on  the  wind, 
To  hear  the  rushing  of  the  crested  trees 
Along  the  flowing  furrows  of  the  air, 
But  turn  in  vain  to  find 

The  vision  vanished  where  the  distance  frees 
The  ancient  path  that  lures  me  where,  oh,  where? 


THE   PIPING   MOUNTAINY   MAN. 
To  Josephine  Peabody  Marks. 

AS  I  came  over  the  April  hills 
And  over  the  April  plain, 
I  saw  a  twinkle  of  white-limbed  boys 
In  a  shower  of  April  rain. 


A  drift  of  shining  fair-limbed  boys 
In  the  light  of  an  April  shower 
Were  dancing  around  a  mountainy  man 
Like  the  petals  of  a  flower. 


A  wind  came  over  the  April  hills 

And  over  the  April  rain  ; 

The  sunlight  laughed  from  an  April  cloud 

And  the  Spring  laughed  back  again. 

The  mountainy  man  arose  and  piped 
A  skirling  on  the  wind, 
And  the  drift  of  shining  white-limbed  boys 
Came  skipping  along  behind. 

78 


They  followed  him  over  the  meadows,    Tl:c  ^P.ins 
And  sang  by  the  running  rills,  3/jn"/a 

And  danced  with  him  in  the  sunlight, 
And  laughed  with  him  on  the  hills, 

Till  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  ocean, 
And  ran  to  the  end  of  the  lea, 
Where  they  dance  on  the  rippling  waters, 
And  run  on  the  sands  of  the  sea. 


HOMEWAYS. 

To  Fiona. 

WIND  from  the  waters 
And  light  from  the  foam 
Through  the  branches  of  alder 
Shall  beckon  thee  home. 


In  the  sigh  of  the  twilight, 
The  dropping  of  dew 
Shall  soften  thy  knowledge, 
And  shape  it  anew 


To  a  vessel  of  wonder, 
A  cup  of  desire, 
Warm  with  thy  fragrance 
And  white  in  thy  fire. 

79 


ROMANY   LOVE   SONG. 

To  Roy  Mortimer  Newman. 

SPRINKLE  dew  from  the  sky 
On  the  eyes  of  thy  love. 
Scatter  light  from  on  high 
On  the  wings  of  the  dove. 

Dark  is  the  town, 
And  dark  are  its  men, 
But  white  shining  down 
Are  the  stars  of  the  glen. 

Lay  thy  brown  body 
To  brown  earth's  breast. 
Dust  unto  dust  cometh 
Seeking  its  rest. 


LIGHT   TRANSMUTED. 

WHITE  wind  and  a  flame 
'Twixt  a  breath  and  a  breath, 
And  the  silence  of  foam 
From  the  caverns  of  death. 

A  flood  in  our  veins 

Of  lilies  and  light, 

And  the  rushing  of  rains 

Through  the  stillness  of  night. 

Light  from  the  waters 
Is  veiling  the  skies : 
She  laughs  with  the  flowers 
That  dream  in  her  eyes. 
80 


THE    SHEPHERD    BOY. 
To  Grace  Clark. 
SAW  him  naked  on  a  hill 

Above  a  world  of  gold, 
And  coming  by,  so  still,  so  still, 
The  sheep  within  his  fold. 


I 


He  strode  along  that  golden  air, 
A  rosy-bodied  fool, 
With  wonder-dripping  dreams  as  fair 
As  starlight  in  a  pool. 


He  sang  of  old,  forgotten  springs 
Of  worship  in  the  sky, 
And  longing  passionate  with  wings, 
And  vision  that  must  die. 


His  body  and  his  spirit  glowed 
For  joy  that  they  were  one, 
And  from  his  heart  the  music  flowed 
Into  the  setting  sun. 


I  hurried  as  the  light  grew  dim, 
And  left  him  far  behind, 
Yet  still  I  heard  his  joyous  hymn 
Come  faintly  down  the  wind. 


8r 


I 


MAGIC 

To  W.  S.  B. 

RAN  into  the  sunset  light 
As  hard  as  I  could  run : 
The  treetops  bowed  in  sheer  delight 
As  if  they  loved  the  sun : 
And  all  the  songs  of  little  birds 
Who  laughed  and  cried  in  silver  words 
Were  joined  as  they  were  one. 


And  down  the  streaming  golden  sky 

A  lark  came  circling  with  a  cry 

Of  wonder-weaving  joy: 

And  all  the  arch  of  heaven  rang 

Where  meadowlands  of  dreaming  hang 

As  when  I  was  a  boy. 


And  through  the  ringing  solitude 

In  pulsing  lovely  amplitude 

A  mist  hung  in  a  shroud, 

As  though  the  light  of  loneliness 

Turned  pure  delight  to  holiness, 

And  bathed  it  in  a  cloud. 


I  stripped  my  laughing  body  bare 
And  plunged  into  that  holy  air 
That  washed  me  like  a  sea, 
And  raced  against  its  silver  tide 
That  stroked  my  eager  glancing  side 
And  made  my  spirit  free. 
82 


Across  the  limits  of  the  land  Magic. 

The  wind  and  I  swept  hand  in  hand 

Beyond  the  golden  glow. 

We  danced  across  the  ocean  plain 

Like  thrushes  singing  in  the  rain 

A  song  of  long  ago. 

And  on  into  the  silver  night 

We  strove  to  win  the  race  with  light 

And  bring  the  vision  home, 

And  bring  the  wonder  home  again 

Unto  the  sleeping  eyes  of  men 

Across  the  singing  foam. 

And  down  the  river  of  the  world 

Our  glowing  limbs  in  glory  swirled 

As  spring  within  a  flower, 

And  stars  in  music  of  delight 

Streamed  gayly  down  our  shoulders  white 

Like  petals  in  a  shower. 

And  tears  of  awful  wonder  ran 

Adown  my  cheeks  to  hear  the  clan 

Of  beauty  chaunting  white 

The  prayer  too  deep  for  living  word 

Or  sight  of  man  or  winging  bird 

Or  music  over  forest  heard 

At  falling  of  the  night. 

And  dropping  slowly  as  the  dew 
On  grasses  that  the  winds  renew 
In  urge  of  flooding  fire, 
And  softly  as  the  hushing  boughs 
The  gentle  airs  of  dawn  arouse 
To  cradle  morning's  quire, 

83 


Magic.     The  murmur  of  the  singing  leaves 
Around  the  secret  Flame, 
Like  mating  swallows  'neath  the  eaves, 
In  rustling  silence  came, 
And  flowing  through  the  silent  air 
Creation  fluttered  in  a  prayer 
Descending  on  a  spiral  stair 
And  calling  me  by  name. 

It  nestled  in  my  dreaming  eyes 

Like  heaven  in  a  lake, 

And  softened  hope  into  surprise 

For  very  beauty's  sake, 

And  silence  blossomed  into  morn 

Whose  fragrant  rosy-breasted  dawn 

Could  scarcely  bear  to  break. 

I  sang  into  the  morning  light 

As  loud  as  I  could  sing, 

The  treetops  bowed  in  sheer  delight 

Before  a  slanting  wing, 

And  all  the  songs  of  little  birds 

Who  laughed  and  cried  in  silver  words 

Adored  the  Risen  Spring. 


SONG. 

To  Padralc  Colum. 

FAIR  body,  flower  not  in  vain, 
Nor  let  thy  beauty  rust, 
When  April  flowers  and  April  rain 
Renew  thy  dreaming  dust. 
84 


Let  passion  vanish  down  the  sky  Song. 

And  flame  consume  desire, 
Until  the  morning  stars  on  high 
Shall  hymn  thy  beauty's  fire. 

So  shalt  thou  bud  in  April  rain 
And  bloom  in  April  dust : 
Fair  body,  flower  not  in  vain, 
Nor  let  thy  beauty  rust. 


TO    AN    APRIL    SKYLARK. 
To  L.  7.  G. 

>N  thy  soft-limbed  cherry-tree 
Blossoming  beside  the  sea, 
Art  thou  laughing  at  a  cloud? 
Thy  mate  is  circling  silver-loud. 


I 


The  golden-petalled  cup  of  dawn 
Hath  never  held  a  whiter  morn 
Mirrored  in  a  skylark's  eyes 
Twinkling  silver-soft  surprise. 

Laughing  down  a  merry  hill 
Every  ray  doth  beauty  spill. 
White  and  singing  from  the  sun 
The  happy  streams  of  beauty  run. 

Little  honey-haunted  throat, 
Cease  thy  golden-fluted  note. 
By  the  silence  of  the  sea 
In  thy  dreaming  cherry-tree 

85 


wonder  with  thy  song. 
Love  be  silent,  life  is  long. 
Then  thy  music  in  a  prayer 
Shall  soften  all  the  singing  air 

Into  wonder  white  as  thine, 
White  as  dreams  within  a  shrine, 
Clear  as  music  from  a  cloud. — 
So  thy  song  saith  silver-loud. 

Oxford  Meadows,  Eastertide,  1914. 

THE   BRIM. 

To  Burton  Kline. 

TTE  lay  on  the  edge  of  the  morning 
•*-  A  And  laughed  at  the  ocean  lands, 
And  all  the  light  from  the  dayspring 
Was  brimming  in  his  hands. 

Wind  from  the  flowering  starlight 
Rippled  over  his  heart. 
The  veins  of  his  flaming  body 
Sang  apart. 

For  all  that  day  of  wonder 
Flesh  and  flower  lay  still, 
While  color  sighed  on  his  eyelids, 
And  clouds  slipped  over  the  hill. 

And  still  in  the  golden  evening 
He  lay  with  the  dreaming  sun, 
Till  the  wind  stole  away  from  his  body, 
And  the  night  and  he  were  one. 
86 


A    SONG   FOR   TWILIGHT. 
To  Katherine. 

SLEEP,  little  poppy, 
And  rest  from  thy  play. 
All  things  in  twilight 
Are  dreaming  of  day. 


The  wind  in  the  cavern, 
The  star  on  the  cloud, 
The  mist  in  the  valley, 
The  maid  in  the  shroud. 


The  trees  on  the  sky, 
And  the  bird  in  the  nest, 
The  dew  on  the  flower, 
And  thou  on  my  breast. 


ARAN    SLUMBER   SONG. 
To  L.  I.  G. 

ANGELS  below  me, 
Angels  above, 
Over  my  eyelids 
A  slender  white  dove. 

Uiril  before  me, 
Michael  behind, 
The  silence  of  honey 
And  dew  on  the  wind. 

8? 


Aran  Slum-     Rustling  of  swallows 
Lulls  me  to  sleep 
From  the  crown  of  my  head 
To  the  soles  of  my  feet. 

Softly  I  slumber 
Whatever  betide. 
The  white  body  of  God 
Lies  down  at  mv  side. 


SMOORIXG   SOXG. 

To  Louis  Albert  Lamb. 
BUILD  me  the  hearth 
Of  the  Mother  of  God 
Who  guardeth  the  floor 
And  watcheth  the  sod. 


I 


Who  shines  on  the  road 
But  Michael  the  fair? 
Who  smiles  at  the  door 
But  Brigid  of  the  hair? 

Who  stands  on  the  floor 
But  Peter  and  Paul? 
Who  bends  o'er  my  head 
But  the  Shepherd 'of  all? 

An  angel  hath  charge 
Of  the  hearth  and  the  byre 
Till  white  day  shall  come 
To  the  ash  of  the  fire, 
Till  white  day  shall  come 
To  the  ash  of  the  fire. 
88 


O1 


MICHAEL    PAT. 

To  Anna  Hemf>stead  Branch. 
\LD  Michael  Pat  he  said  to  me 

He  saw  an  angel  in  a  tree. 
He  knew  I  'd  never,  never  doubt  him, 
For  what  would  Heaven  be  without  them. 
The  angel  laughed  for  very  glee 
And  sang  out  loud  :    "  Heigh  !  come  with  me  !  " 
Old  Michael  felt  a  creeping  kind 
Of  wonder  in  his  humble  mind, 
And,  hardly  knowing  what  to  say, 
Ran  where  the  angel  showed  the  way. 
The  lambs  were  running  on  the  hills, 
Glad  laughter  echoed  from  the  rills, 
And  many  hidden  little  birds 
Talked  pleasant  things  in  singing  words. 
He  followed  up  a  mountain  then 
And  saw  a  crowd  of  singing  men 
Approaching  to  a  Crown  of  Light 
Wherein  they  took  a  fresh  delight. 
He  danced  and  sang  and  whooped  and  crew 
To  see  the  Lord  of  all  he  knew 
Surrounded  by  the  living  songs 
Of  stars  and  men  in  countless  throngs, 
And  then  he  died  to  life  again, 
And  shovelled  with  the  strength  of  ten. 
He  taught  me  how  to  say  my  letters, 
And  take  my  hat  off  to  my  betters, 
And  when  I  asked  for  fairy  stories, 
He  told  me  of  angelic  glories. 
He  was  a  lovely  farmer,  he 
Had  seen  an  angel  in  a  tree. 


89 


A   CHRISTMAS   WHISTLE. 

For  Florence  and  "  Grattan" 

BROTHER  sun  and  brother  wind 
And  brother  dust  and  I 
Are  travelling  to  Bethlehem 
To  learn  why  thrushes  sigh. 

The  grey-eyed  wizard  of  the  rain 
Will  lead  us  to  the  King, 
And  He  will  teach  us  with  a  smile 
The  song  the  robins  sing. 

Whistle,  robin,  in  the  tree, 
Life  is  but  a  puddle, 
Stirred  with  starlight  white  as  He 
Bards  to  beauty- fuddle. 

Dance  around  the  holly-bush 
And  sing  into  the  fire 
Like  the  sleepy  shepherd-boys 
In  Baby  Jesus'  byre. 

Ring-a-round-a-rosy, 
Lilies  at  your  feet, 
Snowdrops  for  a  posy, 
Grasses  for  a  seat. 

Sing  a  merry  chorus 
To  the  tragic  play. 
White  wings  rustle  o'er  us, 
And  it  is  Christmas  Day. 
90 


THE   WHITE   MAID   OF   BALLINASLOE. 
To  Seumas  O'Brien. 

WHITE  Tearlach  rose  from  his  couch  of  silk 
In  the  morning  bright  and  early, 
And  he  's  taken  his  steed  as  white  as  milk, 
And  he  's  mounted  strong  and  burly. 

He  travelled  over  the  fields  of  green 
And  over  the  bright  blue  water 
And  through  the  haunted  forest's  sheen 
To  steal  the  king's  shining  daughter. 

He  whistled  high  and  he  whistled  low 
And  he  whistled  soft  and  cheery, 
But  he  's  not  come  to  Ballinasloe, 
And  he  's  not  got  my  dearie. 

For  when  sunlight  came  at  the  dawn  of  day 
And  the  thrushes'  call  was  merry, 
Then  Mary  and  I  went  gallop  away 
To  the  tune  of  "  Whistling  Jerry." 

Galloped  away  to  the  wattled  church 
On  the  hillside  by  the  ferry, 
\Vhere  Mary  and  I  left  him  in  the  lurch 
To  the  tune  of  "  Whistling  Jerry." 

I  gave  her  a  ring  at  the  dawn  of  day 

In  the  church  there  by  the  ferry. 

The  mass-priest  joined  us,  then  off  and  away 

To  the  tune  of  "  Whistling  Jerry." 


beside  the  hil1 
BaUinashe.     On  his  milk-white  steed  for  Mary, 
But  for  all  we  care  he  is  riding  still 
To  the  tune  of  "  Whistling  Jerry." 

From  the  dawn  of  day  to  sunset  light 
He  galloped  strong  and  burly, 
Astride  of  his  steed  so  milky  white, 
But  we  were  away  too  early. 

We  whistled  high  and  we  whistled  low 
And  we  whistle  soft  and  cheery, 
For  he  's  not  come  to  Ballinasloe, 
And  he  's  not  got  my  dearie. 


SONG. 

MY  heart  is  full  of  laughing  birds 
That  sing  and  sing  and  sing. 
They  rustle  under  silver  words 
And  flash  a  gleaming  wing. 

My  soul  is  full  of  cloistered  bells 
That  ring  and  ring  so  cool, 
Of  stars  that  shine  in  dreaming  wells 
Or  nestle  in  a  pool. 

My  eyes  were  full  of  shining  tears: 
I  trembled  in  the  grass. 
I  mind  the  day.    Alas!  'tis  years!  — 
But  will  he  never  pass? 

92 


OFF    CHATHAM    BARS. 

LIGHT,  and  the  cry  of  the  wild  dove  flying 
Over  the  pathless  sunset  home, 
Out  of  the  mist  of  sighing  waters 
Into  the  silent  dying  foam. 

Nightfall  slowly  hushing  to  stillness, 
Murmur  of  shingle  slipping  down, 
Throbbing  pulse  of  the  passionate  spirit 
Brooding  over  the  sleeping  town. 

The  veins  of  the  world  are  flooding  inward, 
Earth-flame  curls  in  the  running  blood, 
And  flesh,  an  island  in  chartless  oceans, 
Scourged  by  the  lash  of  the  flying  scud, 

Flowers  in  stars  of  adoration, 
Chaunting  loud  to  the  singing  tide, 
Wind  and  moon  and  waters  obeying, 
Bridegroom  flaming  unto  the  Bride. 


ARAN    CRADLE   SONG. 

To  John  Joseph  Phillips. 

HUSH  thee,  my  treasure,  a  glow  in  thy  flesh, 
Ariel  guards  thee,  weaving  a  mesh 
Of  dreaming  and  laughter  and  wonder  and  flowers 
To  blow  in  thine  heart  in  the  shining  white  hours. 

A  spreading  green  pasture  beneath  thy   fair  feet, 
The  song  of  a  skylark  thy  waking  to  greet, 
The  bloom  of  ripe  cherries  shall  smile  on  thy  lips, 
Like  the  smile  on  the  sea  where  the  white  sail  dips. 

93 


Aran Cradle    Ah!  rock  thee  to  sleep  by  the  surge  of  the  sea, 
Too  soon  will  the  waters  thy  cradling  be, 
Already  the  gray  winds  have  sung  in  thy  heart 
The  message  that  thou  and  thy  mother  shall  part. 

Thy  father's  dark  curagh  went  down  in  the  sound, 
Thou  wast  born  on  the  morning  his  stocking  was 

found, 

But  hush  thee,  my  white  love,  hush  thee  to  sleep, 
When  they  keened  me  the  tidings  mine  eyes  did  not 

weep. 

The  lure  of  the  sea  shineth  cold  in  thine  eyes, 

Wild  as  the  wind  and  deep  as  the  skies, 

We  bear  thee  in  pain  at  the  call  of  the  waves, 

Our  passionate  sons  whom  we  keen  on  their  graves. 

But  hush,  little  son,  in  thy  cradle  so  low, 
May  God  his  white  pity  to  white  mothers  show, 
Hush  thee,  my  treasure,  thy  night  will  be  soon, 
For  the  waters  are  waking  and  high  is  the  moon. 


THE   SHROUD. 

To  B rigid  MacDonagh  of  Inishmaan. 

STORM  of  waters  overhead, 
Moaning  winds  beyond  the  door, 
Weaving  linen  for  the  dead, 
Slipping  gently  on  the  floor, 

Stitching  in  and  stitching  out, 
Waves  of  ocean  roaring  loud, 
Stitching  round  and  round  about, 
Weaving  linen  for  a  shroud. 

94 


Keening,  swaying,  crooning  low,       The  Shroud. 
Dull  red  ashes  on  the  fire, 
Stitching  linen  white  as  snow, 
\Yrinklcd  hands  that  never  tire. 

Waves  upon  a  beaten  strand, 
A  stocking  floating  on  the  kelp, 
Tossed  upon  the  foaming  sand, 
A  knitted  stocking  cries  for  help. 

Drifting  in  and  drifting  out, 
Laughing  waves  upon  the  shore, 
Drifting  round  and  round  about 
From  Donegal  to  Aranmor. 

Seven  weeks  and  seven  more, 
Floating  on  a  slipping  wave 
From  Donegal  to  Aranmor, 
Crying,  crying  for  a  grave. 

A  dark  and  dripping  thing  to  see, 
Upon  the  foaming  sunlit  sand, 
A  sightless  fisher  from  the  sea, 
A  broken  oarlock  in  his  hand. 

Keening,  swaying,  crooning  low, 
Tottering  across  the  crags, 
Bearing  linen  white  as  snow, 
A  poor  old  woman  on  the  flags. 

A  poor  grey  woman  does  be  old 
Kneeling  on  the  sunny  stones, 
A  poor  grey  breast  that  does  be  cold 
(A  dying  wind,  the  tide  that  moans,) 

95 


The  Shroud.    Wraps  him  over,  wraps  him  under, 
(Light  is  weeping  from  a  cloud,) 
Wraps  him  round  in  helpless  wonder 
With  the  linen  of  his  shroud. 


THE   LAST    PIPER. 

To  Walter  Conrad  Arensberg. 
RK  winds  of  the  mountain, 
White  winds  of  the  sea, 
Are  skirling  the  pibroch 
Of  Seumas  an  Righ. 


D 


The  crying  of  gannets, 
The  shrieking  of  terns, 
Are  keening  his  dying 
High  over  the  burns. 

Grey  silence  of  waters, 
And  wasting  of  lands, 
And  the  wailing  of  music 
Down  to  the  sands. 

The  wailing  of  music, 
And  trailing  of  wind, 
The  waters  before  him, 
The  mountains  behind. 

Alone  at  the  gathering, 
Silent  he  stands, 
And  the  wail  of  his  piping 
Cries  over  the  lands 
96 


To  the  moan  of  the  waters,          The  Last 
The  drone  of  the  foam, 
Where  his  soul,  a  white  gannet, 
Wings  silently  home. 


THE  LAMENT  AT  THE  WEDDING. 

(After  the  Scottish  Gaelic.) 

I  WILL  sit  here  and  crouch  and  wait,  nor  am  I  gay, 
At  the  foot  of  the  Brown  Hillock,  where  I,  a 

girl,  grew  grey: 

I,  a  poor  silly  girl,  and  great  were  my  lover's  vows. 
They  have  taken  him  away  from  my  lonely  wee  glen 

of  boughs, 

The  wee  glen  of  cuckoos,  and  rushes  on  the  ground. 
It  is  there  in  the  folds  the  drifting  herds  are  found, 
And  fair  maidens  fending  the  new-born  calves  from 

death, 
And  stooping  down  in  kindness  they  blow  on  them 

their  breath. 
It  is  there  are  nuts  and  rowans,  where  the  wind  is 

blowing  south, 

And  they,  love,  with  the  taste  of  honey  on  thy  mouth. 
Brown  nuts  that  hang  there  upon  the  hazel  tree, 
And  I,   love,  to   gather  them,  to  gather   them  with 

thee. 
A  thousand  shrouds  on  my  friends,  that  death  may 

steal  them  with  his  blast, 

They  not  to  have  left  me  to  seal  thy  beauty  fast. 
It  is  they  put  clouds  around  us,  the  way  we  were 

naked  fools, 
Would  be   having  not  a  penny  to   sit  on  alehouse 

stools. 

97 


The  Lament    The  one  would  tell  that  story,  let  it  choke  him  in  his 

at  the  ^ 

Wedding.  mouth, 

And  his  cattle  let  them  wither  in  the  bitter  summer 

drouth. 
Threescore  white-shouldered  cows  are  breathing  in 

thy  fold, 
Threescore  dark-grey   cows  at  Rannoch's   foot  are 

told, 

And  thine  in  any  green  field  a  rich  herd  of  mares, 
Threescore  of  goats,  and  white  sheep  in  pairs. 
Gley-eyed  John  they  called  thee,  and  all  their  bodies 

shook, 

And  yet,  to  my  thinking,  kind  was  thy  look. 
The   slope  of  thy  cheek  like  the  sea-gull,  thy  two 

sides  like  the  swan, 
Thy    kiss    was    sweet    as    apples,    thy    breath    of 

cinnamon. 
Thy  wedding  night  is  making  thee  a  fine  and  manly 

man 

With  four-and-twenty  gallants  drinking  from  a  can, 
With  thy  elegant  maidens,  in  linen  and  in  silk, 
To  laugh  and  to  praise  thee,  and  they  as  white  as 

milk. 
But  should  I  get  no  more  of  thee,  it 's  this  that  I  will 

say, 

Come  now  and  invite  me  to  thy  wedding  day, 
To  the  wedding  of  the  youth,  whom  I  fancied  more 

or  less, 
Though  maybe  I  'd  be  laughing  to  keep  them  from  a 

guess. 
And  a  pair  of  gloves  thou  'It  buy  me,  and  linen  for 

a  shroud 

The  night  I  'd  be  dancing  with  all  the  wedding  crowd, 
98 


And  a  coffin  of  the  ash  for  a  cover  under  ground, 

And  thou  shalt  know  in  truth  then  where  I  can  be    Wedding. 

found, 

And  wherever  thou  shalt  go  then,  ah  !  but  I  will  pray 
That  gladness  may  go  with  thee,  though  it 's  I  that 

am  grey ! 


HELLENICA. 

To  John  Gould  Fletcher. 
I 

UXDER    the     foaming     sky     with     cloud-capped 
horses, 

I,  a  maiden,  lie  by  the  windy  ocean, 
Dreaming  of  quiet  waters 
Guarded  by  willows. 

II 

The  flowering  side  of  my  love  was  fair  at  dawn. 
I  fled  in  the  grayness. 

Ill 

Whither  streams  the  windy  hair  of  the  night? 
Water  plashes  drop  by  drop  in  the  courtyard, 
And  I  lie  alone. 

IV 

Sigh  not,  stranger. 
Here  lies  white  Melitta. 
The  haunted  music  of  Pan 
Makes  music  in  the  woodways. 

99 


V 

Water  does  not  whisper 
Beside  my  bower. 
It  dreams  of  Hylas 
Prisoned  within  a  prayer. 

VI 

Pearl-fishers  searching  the  opal  waters. 
Found  this  maiden 
At  rest  on  the  ocean  sands. 

And  raise  this  mound  by  the  sighing  water-waves 
To  grey-dreaming 
Akina, 

VII 

H  7  r  v  :  r  ;  •; :. :  7 
Under  the  swaying  olive 
Lieth  Paula 
\\~ho  loved  the  blossoming  hillside, 

.::: 

Flowing  lieht 

Runs 

Over  my  eyelids, 

For  I  am  Hylas 

Praying  in  the  springtime. 

Sprinkle  apple  blossoms  on  my  pillow. 

IX 

Fc2m  is  all  they  !eft  me  for  my  dreaming. 
I  who  outfled  the  sun  in  the  race  at  Corinth, 
Ktr-i—us.  f.eet  of  foot, 
And  fiower-hearted. 


Here  Glycine  rests,  under  the  willows. 
Whom  men  remember  after  death  has  forgotten. 
Her    breasts    were    fairer    than    apples    in    autumn 
sunlight. 

XI 

Myrrhis,  who  tended  the  flocks  on  the  misty  hillside, 
Lies  softly  here,  above  the  trodden  pathway, 
For  she  would  not  hear  the  steps  of  her  lover,  Bion. 

XII 

Here  in  the  pastured  plains 

Dreams  in  azure  stillness  Daphne,  a  maiden. 

Her  throat  was  softer  than  light  and  honey-haunted. 

XIII 

Low  by  the  aged  rocks  of  the  bearded  ocean, 
Baucis,  child  of  the  sky. 
Rests  awaiting  the  touch  of  her  mother,  Rhodis. 

XIV 

Over  the  soft-veiled  sea 
The  wind  from  the  south  brings  showers 
To  the  grave  of  Argive  Helen. 
Whose  loveliness  lies  forgotten  in  dusty  ways. 

XV 

Under  the  morning  star 
In  a  silver  urn 

Lieth  all  that  remains  of  Heraclitus. 
Whose  eyes  beheld  the  mystery  of  change. 
101 


Hellenic*.  XVI 

Slumber  lies  grey  on  the  eyes  of  Clytie, 

Who  flowered  for  a  day  on  the  breast  of  her  mother, 

Then  took  the  way  to  Acheron  alone. 


XVII 

Flowing  limbs  have  fled  to  murmurous  sod. 
The  swallows  fly  from  her  silent  couch  of  grasses, 
But  when  they  return  in  the  springtime  they  tell  to 

Erinna 

How  light  dreams  vainly  of  her 
In  the  blue  hills  of  Thessaly. 


XVIII 

Star-crowned  Artemis  dreamed  of  Melitta's  fairness. 
Now  here  the  maiden  lies, 
For  the  dreams  of  a  goddess  ever  become  immortal. 

XIX 
Hyacinth    spears    now    spring    from    the    grave    of 

Daphne, 

Wounding  the  heart  of  Cleon, 
Who  tends  his  flocks  on  the  hill  where  her  feet  once 

lingered. 

XX 

Here  on  this  wave-washed  island, 
White  as  the  dreams  of  her  mother, 
Lies  a  Samian  maiden 
Who  knew  only  the  work  of  her  loom. 

102 


XXI  Hellenica. 

Myrto  laughed  with  the  swallows  in  the  springlight. 
She  followed  them,  and  now  her  childish  prattle 
Wakens  dusty  dreams  in  old  shades  of  Hades. 


XXII 

The  light  of  Paula's  voice  has  left  the  sunshine. 
Now  in  the  halls  of  Persephone  running  gayly 
She  greets  her  mother,  Helen, 

For  swift  is  the  way  of  a  child  to  the  breast  that 
warms  her. 

XXIII 

Amyntychus,  who  turned  the  brown  earth  tenderly, 
Now  lies  one  with  the  sod  which  rests  lightly  above 

him, 
For  they  were  friends  for  threescore  years  and  ten. 


XXIV 
The  breath  of  the  west  wind  soothes  him  to  golden 

slumber, 

Daphnis,  whose  shepherd  pipe  in  the  summer  breezes 
Wove  refreshing  dreams  by  the  plashing  fountain. 
The  leaves  whisper  his  name  to  the  running  water. 


XXV 

Crethis,  who  rivalled  the  nightingale  in  passion, 
Went  to  dust  in  the  month  of  budding  laurel, 
Crowned  with  music  of  unforgotten  pain. 
103 


Hettenica.  XXVI 

Cleon  does  not  forget  the  gentle  footsteps 
Of  Scylla,  his  little  maiden, 
Who  returns  no  more  unto  her  father's  dwelli 
But  walks  the  long  descent  into  the  silence 
Tired  and  alone. 

XXVII 

Rhodoclea,  whose  body  veiled  the  sun, 
Has  fallen  into  shadow 
Under  the  grasses. 

XXVIII 

Plato's  passion  troubled  Timon's  soul. 
His  body  followed  beauty  to  the  end. 
Sunlight  sifts  across  his  earthy  bed. 


XXIX 

Slumber  fell  upon  the  gentle  eyelids 
Of  sweet  Theonoe  upon  the  mountain. 
When  she  awoke  the  cicala  was  mourning 
Down  in  the  valley. 

XXX 

Callista,  who  loved  the  airs  of  the  open  spaces, 
Fell  asleep  upon  her  wedding  day. 


XXXI 

Here  lies,  in  rapture  of  contemplation, 
Hylas,  who  went  away, 
And  followed  the  morning  star. 
104 


XXXII  Hellenico. 

Maidenly  Bacchis  wove  her  wedding  tunic. 
Now  it  lies  in  the  dust 
That  clasps  her  loveliness. 


XXXIII 

White-dreaming  Pasiphae 

Wanders  clad  in  her  beauty 

Through  the  dusky  meadows  of  Persephone. 


XXXIV 

Anyte,  who  dissolveth  into  silence, 
Lieth  under  the  flowers  of  Thessaly, 
Fresher  than  the  dew  of  the  eager  morning. 


XXXV 

Myrrha,  whose  body  was  clearer  than  light  on  water, 
Remembers  not  her  beauty 
In  the  stillness. 

XXXVI 

The  scent  of  mint  on  the  sandy  grave  of  Nicias 
Cries  unto  the  wanderer 
For  remembrance. 

XXXVII 

Here  in  the  arms  of  the  harvest 
Lies  the  gleaner,  Bion, 
Whose  sickle  shines  above  him  in  the  evening. 

105 


Hellenic*.  XXXVIII 

Far  from  tides  and  sand 
On  the  slope  of  Cithseron 
Resteth  Eumenes 
In  the  purple  distance. 
His  fellow  tunny-fishers  erect  this  stone. 

XXXIX 

Chaste  Clearista  flowers  in  the  heavens, 

For  dearer  than  Helen's  beauty  in  April  sunlight 

The  gods  love  the  spotless  dreams  of  a  maiden. 

XL 

Fairer  than  iris  blossoms  slenderly  swaying 
Under  the  sighing  zephyrs  of  sandy  Argos, 
The  harvest  breezes  stole  the  heart  of  Erinna. 
Now  she  dreams  under  the  meadow  grasses. 

XLI 

The  swan  afloat  on  the  rippling  azure  waters 
Has  memory  of  your  fairness,  Rhododaphne, 
And  dreams  upon  time's  surface  of  your  passing. 

XLII 

Nerissa  played  with  the  swallows  till  the  twilight. 
Now  they  soar  above  her, 
And  they  wonder. 

XLIII 

Far  from  Cos  where  the  sailors  hail  in  passing, 
Cleonicus  lies  unmarked  on  the  ocean  strand. 
The  crying  gulls  bring  tidings  of  ancient  summer, 
But  not  to  me  the  sound  of  his  glad  coming. 
106 


XLIV  Udlenica. 

Barefoot  a  little  lad  has  wandered  far, 

And  we  have  sought  in  vain, 

For  he  has  found 

The  amaranthine  meadows. 


XLV 

Now  that  the  flower  is  blown 

And  the  rosy  petals 

Render  earth  more  fragrant 

With  their  body, 

Myrrhis  dreams  of  spring  in  the  flaming  ground. 


XLVI 

Lightly  I  walked  the  hills  of  my  native  Hellas. 

Lightly  I  rest  in  the  heart  of  her  rushing  forest, 

Hernias,  the  hunter, 

At  peace, 

With  the  moon  above  me. 


XLVII 

Thyrsis,  who  loved  the  rain  in  the  dreaming  hollows, 
Wanders  now  soft-sandalled  in  misty  ways, 
Where  the  scent  of  flag 
Recalls  not 
Hylas,  lonely. 


107 


COMPLAINT   OF   THE   OBLIVION 
OF  THE  DEAD. 

(From  Jules  Laf argue.) 

FAIR  gentlemen  and  ladies 
Whose  mother  is  no  more, 
It  is  the  sexton's  spade  is 
A-scraping  at  your  door. 

The  dead 
Are  under  grass; 
Nothing  said; 
Let  it  pass. 

You  smoke  in  your  ale, 
You  settle  a  scheme, 
Below  sings  the  cock: 
Poor  dead  in  a  dream ! 

Grandpa  is  nodding 
Over  his  cup, 
Sister  's  crocheting, 
Mother  lights  up. 

The  dead 
Are  discreet, 
The  wind 
Is  so  sweet. 

You  've  dined  very  well : 
How  goes  your  affair? 
Ah!  the  little  still-born 
Are  not  fondled  so  there ! 
108 


Set  down   with  a  pen  Complaint 

T-I  •  r  »         t_  °f  tflc 

The  account,  if  you  re  brave,  Oblivion 

"To  cost  of  the  ball:  of  the  Dead. 
The  last  mass  and  the  grave." 


'T  is  gay, 
This  life; 
Heigh,  wife? 
What,  nay? 


Fair  gentlemen  and  ladies 
Whose  sister  is  no  more, 
Open !  the  sexton's  spade  is 
A-knocking  at  your  door. 


If  you  do  not  take  pity, 
He  '11  come   (without  spite) 
And  drag  you  by  the  feet 
At  full  moon  some  night. 


Hard-hearted 
Wind  that  flays! 
The  departed? 
Gone  their  ways  . 


109 


THE   DEAD   MAIDEN. 
(From  Paul  Fort.) 

THE  maid  is  dead,  is  dead  in  her  love's  fire. 
They  laid  her  in  the  earth,  the  earth  at  break  of 
day. 

They  laid  her  there  alone,  alone  in  her  attire, 
They  laid  her  there  alone,  alone  within  the  clay. 
And  home  they  wended  gayly,  gayly  with  the  day, 
Homeward  singing  gayly,  gayly :    "  Each  his  day. 
This  maid  is  dead,  is  dead  in  her  love's  fire." 
And  to  the  fields,  the  fields  they  went  as  every  day. 


THE   DRIFTING   MAN. 

(/.  M.:   John  Milling  ton  Synge:    187 1-7909.) 

I 

nPHEY  dwelt  there  by  the  surging  of  the  sea, 
J-    And  toiled  and  dreamed  and  wondered  by  the 

fire, 

And  never  woke  to  fear,  for  they  were  free, 
Free  as  the  servant  worthy  of  his  hire. 
And  in  the  rustling  shadows  of  the  hearth, 
When  night  would  settle  slowly  on  the  world, 
They  gathered  in  a  group  of  pleasant  mirth 
To  idle  wisely,  while  the  turf-smoke  curled 
Up  through  the  swallow-haunted  chimney-place, 
And  love  and  simple  faith  lit  every  face. 
no 


II  The  Drift 

ing  Man. 

Shadows  on  honest  faces  in  the  gloom 

Would    dream    of    neighbors    homing    through    the 

drift, 

The  magic  stillness  soften  in  the  room, 
And  gentle  eyes  of  solitude  would  lift, 
While  kneeling  in  a  circle  on  the  ground 
And  whispering  the  rosary  of  rest, 
Their  fragrant  worship  flowered  into  sound, 
And  thou  wert  there,  a  drifting  silent  guest. 
The  lonely  swaying  sorrow  of  the  wind 
Would  call  to  thee  in  murmurs  that  repined. 


Ill 

And  now  when  summer  sun  is  on  the  thatch, 
They  dream  of  thee  beyond  the  open  door, 
And  one  may  sigh  a  little  with  a  catch, 
But  thou  art  gone.    Dark  Seaghan*  is  there  no  more. 
Down  the  long  windy  road  thou  travellest  home 
From  Aran  to  the  setting  of  the  stars, 
Into  the  singing  west  thy  footsteps  roam 
Out  of  the  bitter  end  of  passioned  wars. 
The  little  room  is  empty,  and  the  walls 
Are  lonely  when  the  voice  of  silence  calls. 

IV 

And  one,  a  boy  who  wandered  on  the  strand, 
Thy  friend  and  mine,  who  gave  to  thee  his  heart, 
Bides  sadly  for  thy  presence  and  thy  hand, 
For  thou  and  he  may  never  dream  apart. 

*  '  Shawn.' 

in 


The  Drift-    Dost  thou  behold  him  brooding  on  the  rocks 

ing  Man.       TT.    ,       ,       T^-n  1  t       -,-tr 

High  o  er  Killeany,  where  the  Western  surge 
On  Aran's  heart  and  thine  forever  knocks, 
And  Western  winds  forever  moan  thy  dirge? 
The  rushing  waters  and  the  frozen  rain 
Are  breaking,  for  their  hearts  of  thee  are  fain. 


V 

And  now  I  may  not  take  the  road  with  thee, 
When  April  larks  are  climbing  in  the  air, 
And  music  falters  o'er  the  foaming  sea, 
And  poetry  and  Ireland  are  fair. 
Or  swirling  through  the  cloudy  Aran  sound, 
Thy  curagh  shall  no  longer  in  the  dawn 
Carry  in  laughing  triumph  with  a  bound 
Thy  drifting  face  to  holy  Inishmaan. 
Thy  flesh  forsaken  on  a  windy  hill, 
Thy  spirit  chaunts  her  dying  passion  still. 


VI 

Thine  heart  hath  burst  in  sorrow  for  the  love 
It  bore  the  breaking  heart  of  Inisfail. 
Thine  holy  spirit  hovereth,  a  dove 
Of  light  to  soothe  the  memory-haunted  Gael. 
The  sorrowing  of  Maurya  for  her  sons, 
The  crying  of  the  sea-gull  o'er  their  grave, 
The  aching  beauty  of  the  flaming  ones, 
Now  mourn  in  thee  the  one  they  might  not  save. 
Yet  passion  ended,  deadly  dying  done, 
Thine  eyes  now  call  us  to  the  flaming  Sun. 
112 


FOR   ONE   WHO   WENT. 
(/.  A/.:    Joseph  Mary  Plunk ctt.) 
kHOU,  calm  swan  of  battle, 

Thou,  Host  on  the  hill, 
In  the  name  of  an  Image 
A  dream  may  not  kill, 


T 


The  circle  is  shaken, 
The  sword  is  a  fire, 
Thy  son  in  his  anger 
Remembers  his  Sire. 

Brimming  of  waters 
And  echo  of  wars 
For  the  dream  that  he  bore 
From  the  Seed  to  the  stars. 

Wind  unto  starlight, 
And  rain  unto  sod, 
Between  his  two  shoulders 
The  flaming  of  God. 


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